We tap divinity, eyes wide as speakers, draped in Beethoven’s Fifth; the sun listens, the
gravel shifts, while a baby ravishes a plant. We watch for petals—our souls
attuned, traipsing through photographs.
We’re robbed of so much, stationed in adulthood, but a
fraction of that ideal person; where her eyes are warm, her toes carry an odor,
but long lives her smile. We imagine love, this created art—the richness of
heightened ideals; to varnish affliction, or wax the trauma, this gear
mobilizing infinity. Our passions drive us, to thrive through weeds, hacking
through high forces, while clutching our guts. We venture through moods,
affected by mystery, where a distant thought generates joy; as moving through
motions, determined to motivate souls, as to cover a multitude of woes. Our
measures are solemn, this sacred adventure—to perish as a seed in blossom. It’s
a soul’s first realization, as to notice appendages, reaching for a mother’s
eyebrows; where love is fervent, this deep companionship—that that we long for
forevermore; this signal in a vase, this message through darkness, this itching
appeal. We cherish nuances, a bit too rich in experiences, confounded by a
motiveless palm: that famous agony, this joyous stimulus, that far too distant
consciousness; for love's aloof, as far too distant her hands, to be cuddled in
mother’s bosom. We learn to fly, soaring through comforts, as maybe spread a
bit too thin; or we learn to love, conditioned by companionship, needled with
anxieties. This life is mystic, a session of riddles, where aphorisms are
hidden; while babies crawl, clamping just about anything, while gnawing on
carrots.
