Is
it us, this deep concentration, where a daughter mourns; as not of flesh, but
of spirit-bone, clashing with intuition: the thoughtful nights, the words of
Light—this hypersensitivity; as I see a mother, a mystic in for soul, as
communing with spirits. It’s Freyja’s heart, her blood and grit, this century
of floating through secrets; to have this chant, embedded in marrow, as
blessing a young swan. I meant for motion, the walls of crookedness, as slanted
beyond remorse; this course of fools, as proclaiming love, to remedy at least
five personas; to exaggerate more, as not to feign at all, this pyramid of
personalities; where we channel, Forever, this clever embrace, to realize
commitment; as something grand, but still to want, if but a fragment of this
Light. We’ve merged so often, even Buddha’s child, this ocean of yogic
infusion; to know but names, this soldier’s position, as to retreat in
humility. Our days are focused, pushed beyond time, as to remember a summer’s
breeze; to attain to motion, where two are brave, too cultured to forsake our
classes; but life is love, this word of riddles, as to acclaim the shallow;
where art is soul, as soul is blood, as bleeding becomes a canvas of
camouflage; wherefore, this mourning, to acknowledge grace—the fallin’ of a
mental image; as to see a human, as born too early, and therefore, always
ahead. It wasn’t us, as gripping ribs, as filled with terror’s panic; to chase
a dream, a broken castle, as staring with serpent eyes; to see a child,
hardened by graves, a slave of his image; as torn to fight, but slow to
proclaim, a love festering in souls; where it mustn’t live, for it would never
live, this thing pleading for breath; as to die this soul, this soul to die, but a
picture in a woman’s mind; to hold and clash, as to exit a vacuum, for
concerned deeply. We know this feeling, as to rise as hearts, as to vibrate
through channels; to feel but life, as to churn through life, as to avoid this
life; so more to volume, such pearly ways, a dream within a feather.
