She
threshed his soul; this hush-hush affair; as so many vivid emotions.
He
dies in private, this dripping chaos, this public affectation; to give a false name,
these links of madness, to live his asylum; whereat, is terrors, this angry
force, this knocking upon mental doors. It’s our lightless light, this
religious paradox, to tiptoe comforts; as born to war, an infant crawling,
while smelling fumes. What is a thimble, for a moment in space, where souls
become raw? Our storms are radical, this dormant affair, peeking as to destroy;
wherefore, this frustration, as seen in chains, where ashes float upon rivers.
He journeys a trail, among so many valleys, as to pick a path; but lie to us—if
not forever—to manufacture this joy; even coddle us, with a tear of untruths,
while protecting an inner child. He feels unshod, as this infant—in desperate
need of guidance; so to gauge our failings, as never alone, this inward
haunting; as days of war, to enter a public square, where like-minds bare
witness. But oh to glory, this faultless faith, as radical as haunted dreams;
to exit his pit, to ponder an essence, wailing in an inner sanctum; these
prophetic cries, to haunt his caves, to become this alien; as founded in tales,
such brazen woes, to rest for comforts. It’s our deepest light, as challenged
by darkness, this friction steady to morph! She threshed his soul; this
hush-hush affair; as so many emotions. Our inner gates—become planets, this
house of mirrors—to see resistance, as chiseling joys, this tender process.
This couldn’t be life, as life to become, as for a score of secrets; to invest
in life, our price for knowing, opened to such forces: a prophet in a belly, a
mute as a priest, even a Rabi as a sacrifice; to ponder such charms, as to
enter as willingly, this trail of mishaps.
