Thoughts
erupt—as time wraps a ghost, while objections are endless; as baffled by God,
depicted as neurotransmitters, aside for that other pleat; where it falls
suddenly—as swept adrift—filled with quickening passion. We know about life,
that valley for shortcuts, to manifest rapture; but what of silence, or
furnished fire, as pure as a widow’s sorrow?
I’m shifting, to ponder this owl, as it hovers over our lands. It’s a
mutual pain, as strengths pull and tug and yank at countless webs. Our world
shatters—a trauma rises—the portrait bleeds; and there’s persons, chiming in
laughter, morphing into goblins. We try for living, as blank for beauty, as bad
in some essence of this word; ashamed of grieving, ashamed of thinking, ashamed
of disagreeing; at the disposal of others, as fully detached, probing for
intimacy. It’s a trying enterprise, at once a frustration, where one is
relentless, to capture this child, rooted in traumas, as merely a number in
time; and more this ache, as chased by ghosts, seeking to seal happiness; as
abandoned to skies, while tragedy beckons, a sea of onlookers—as pointing
fingers, this ache to cause failure, for he appears as different; but there’s
an owl, probing our souls, as silent as ever—as mad as ever; with little to
reason for, as aside for angst, as the world churns. Its life or death, this
internal chase, where one ignores the owl; as this sick soul, terribly slanted,
without need for solace. The owl has a cousin, this soothing song, grounded in
thinking; as to address the problem, this station of minds, excavating
introjects; while time is spinning, souls are changing, and words are few.
