He’s
unsung, as lost to dangle, a fist full of hives. I meet him daily—this mirrored
affair, as to ponder a psych. It couldn’t be myth, where a tender gesture,
triggers physiognomy: this mental somatic, to speak too much, as to repeat a
cycle. The hiss is loudness, this internal warfare, drifting into years. It’s
barely abated—this bashing hilt, a method of paralyzing. I found such joy—in
gestalt practice, to become so numb. I’m want to warn, but growth is subtle,
this thing of soot and tears. It’s a blackdamp, to triumph in fragments,
pulling at professors: to have but a moment, codified in myths, praying to
mathematics. I hark to spirits, as becoming a parrot, to nurture such wisdom. It’s
more than science, this masterpiece, as failing humanity; where life is grim,
as for sudden joy, this pendulum of affairs. I speak to us—this wealth of pain,
as too heavy to subside; and more a perfect face, as eager to help, too
conscious for a heartbeat. It’s knitted in cults—this lighted adventure, evoked
by swans. We sit abed, chanting for solace, where gods arrive. Our tears are
written, to one day see, each one playing a chorus. We’re amid humans, as
desperate as science, featured in mental films; where life is an ante, this
arid desert, to applaud a cactus. I felt for bolted, to lose a claim, that
closer to what’s hidden; this inner self, this flagrant person, as enigmatic as
a first glance; for time is required, to un-cozen impressions, where a pearl
might become a thorn. I must confess—the greatest joys, this thing of persons;
to unzip a soul, at sudden a moment, to thump hearts. I envy the perfect, for
this is tears, a person without vision; where sight is grand, this forbidden
season, to fail and fade into bliss.
