This sleigh of patience, chilled as psychotic storms—why to
hanker over pain; this flock of geese, confined to simplicity, while yearning
for heaven’s pond; that clump of grass, or soil that grieves, where oak trees
meditate. We tried perfection, outlined in stardust, fettled by a brief
encounter; as altered by souls, for something’s haywire, as to become this
cultic river: those floating particles; that scudding missile; or more those
sockets exploding within; wherewith, are articles, this fleece of symbols, as
to participate in mindstuff: that faraway grin; this inner Zionist; or better,
our eternal Tao; to have such patience, ablaze at a.m., while concerned with
measurements. There’s more to see, while bending thunder—that tendency to leap
within—that frigid scar, that sly indifference, while subjects are never
exhausted. We wait by watching, becoming multiple persons, while affectation
grows—even for weary—this brief encounter, as to harass for weeks. Something
shifts—that inner pendulum, as to awaken a feature—to see it morph, where
studies are won, as a human becomes a number; to watch that contour, to witness
affectation, where one possesses that dangerous soul; as to warn in silence, of
something inherited, as to confess—“It’s different with us”; that wave of
psychs, while trained psychotics, attempting to place a monopoly on this
feature: where it couldn’t be love; and it couldn’t be anger; while it couldn’t
be power—this dance of souls, as taking for granted—that inner training; for
why this pain, as invested sorely, where a Hippocratic Oath is omitted? Those clouds are bleeding, where notes are
whining—this casual confession; to mirror through chi, as to examine this
particle, while truth remains unclear; for death is required to examine death;
and life is required to examine life; whereto, insanity is required to examine
insanity; otherwise, closure becomes an imposition, this forced tome, where
keen eyes feel insulted; this nature she knows, while controlling features,
disturbed by those controlling features: as it stands: one must become unstable,
while one remains stable, merely for this purpose of power; so confidence
becomes offensive; critical thought becomes a challenge; while to ignore
nonsense becomes a symptom; but let us drift, unto something utopic, where
humans are more than specimens. May we
chance the rivers, floating through rafts—this vest to the winds; as casual
friends—this mercy and I, while seeking confirmation; that inner stare, a bit
too potent for some, while souls suffer imposition. The children are running,
as to flit through space, a child and his imagination; as cultivated dearly,
where some are blank, for trauma has taken possession. Our years are riddled—by
charm and force—this course of finding one’s self; where pain is cruel, this
feature of persons, while personalities split: that ruptured cycle, as to see
it not, where this is perfected; for life is babysitting, or slamming a gavel,
where dialogues are wanting; so days become examination, where patients remain
in boxes, while journals are created for records. It mustn’t be real—as to know
not self, while a stranger conducts ones orchestra; so more to self-studies, as
informed through intimacy, as to possess deeper insights: else to perish!
