We’ve
named a feeling—with something insufficient, a pier of vague words; as to
pinpoint frequencies, this claim to holiness, this air of pomp. It must have
been morning, as time is a blur, featured in dialogues;—to grapple the
esoteric, our hearts as jets—soaring through tapestries.
We
want for gods, a feeling in Namaste, as one chiseled with flame;—this born
infusion, an effusion of power, this volt of thunder; for a path was forged, a
kettle is whistling, and something’s in our dining rooms: as formed in
crystals, as alive in chandeliers—this essence as
founded
in a soulcave; to die this living, as living this death, forever so close to
vagueness; but not in substance, this fiery furnace, but in identity—this
elusive entity. We name to identify, this linguistic war, as far reaching as
conventions; to possess a vision, this luminous force, as
invading
the totality of selves; to rev so gently, as charged as engines, surging
through this universe; but it couldn’t be real, such distinctive feelings,
where threads cross-pollinate. Our art is chi-bound; our dreams are tangible;
where Spirit is art founded in fey. It couldn’t be real—as
