Saturday, October 29, 2016
At that Instant
I wanted anger, traipsing a turnpike, feeling a bit stagnate; for styles are waning, as to outgrow patience, while one is holding on: this feral root; this type of levity; where tension speaks to answers. I admire logistics, to soar freely, this art of bathing majesty; as some inner kernel, splayed in parts, provoked by objectivity. It becomes a bore, this thing of strife, as to earn a sense of ignorance; where life is vague, this fraught amore, stationed in envies. I’ve seasoned self, that outward frustration—this thing of escapes; to fluster souls, this hive of dreams, perfected through solitude. We treasure fawning, to eschew the strong, while to assault such souls: Its sheer nature, this inner habit, plus, this need for acceptance; where evenness is error—this want to dominate, as opposed to harmonize; unless for reason, that feature to praise, to cause inner disdain; and then for millions, as one for slaves, this chamber of fools. I trek clouds, soaring through mind-caves, invested in mantras; to see that image—appear in shadows, while sudden a thump; to alter this course, as visions transform—this welkin activity. I sighted a bird’s song, this soothing echo, this rhythmic cadence; to chance this life, this need to trust, peering at gray matter. Our voice to winds, broken as forever, to return such hostility: this fretful night; those silent glares; while seeking this engine. Ours is shattered—this vast disjunction, as to reason but once a mile; this deep ambivalence, that need for mimicry, or this thing of acceptance. It shouldn’t be real, this hassle with life, as to encounter a superior insecurity: this outward loft, as reeking of anger, while kindness is perceived as acquiescing. I must flee, this dangerous perception, for it leads to expectations: that grand approval; that torn disappointment; that return to ground zero; but this is light—as choking on intentions, where it was never mutual; so more to that challenge, that grave suggestion—that humans befriend humans—or more souls, as deep with sadness, breaking free.
PS.
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