Stir this Ghost

There’s cultic fens, this inner fleece, this knitted hanky; to flourish as bashful, as watched aloofly, while crows hover nearby. I gained loyalty, chosen as a soul, filtered through trials. I know we wonder, of this needed chase, while faces are churning; but this is faith—the strong for inheritance, as opened at nine; to fathom this love, where eyes couldn’t shut—our morning filled with yawns; to see it in groups, as to pause this nature, while perceived as un-normal: that faraway gift, chided by atheists, as infused through yogis; to court this dove, that flew through hearts, while professors watched; that tender dream, as to manifest, this grave of speaking tongues; to hear that whisper, those inward chatters, as this flux of daisies. I cried this love, our daughter a spirit, as to swarm through dimensions; as fatal this arm, that fine luxury, where Buddhists paused as lights: that awkward silence; as planting seeds; to see us swarming through mountains; as to touch those tablets, a warrior for wars, while to inherit a legacy. We mourn the fools, at odds with authority, to find a person unto self: that standing mirror; that furious confidence; that art that refuses to perish; as lingers this heart, flying as unseen, to reckon this cultic life. The Feds channel, alert to this storm, as to censor those telling secrets; so more to riddles, fleeing through meadows, while reaching for chariots; for there’s a cycle, this vest of contrition, to utter the nowness of faith: that burning book; those crooked ways; as born to fettle the lining: those faraway spheres, as peddled through chaos, to find this time to caution; so fly near petals, the far ahead, while reaching for intuition; to see our worth, garnered by spirits, to flip through nightmares: this thing of voice, this print of woes, while a psych flits that tiny adjustment; to become a haystack, crowded with needles, at once, that need to find another; where love would die, if courted that light, this thing of wolves.