Soul Petals

I’m staring at ravens, while surfing technology, seeping into darkness; as inner shadows, or archetypes, such symbols to connect us. I’m staring at us, this blatant chaos, so many worlds into action; to soar through minds, this sky-down urge, at once to feel earth; that casual laugh, that roaring persona, those knitted dreams. I’m rising through graves, abandoned to ashes, an urn as a faraway friend; this place of refuge, to believe such stoics, as to presume it’s over; this thing of lives, cultured through examples, as refined as our mentors. It becomes offensive, this thing of brokenness, as one nudges a butterfly: this inner world; those secret powers; that something about our Greeks; to roam through Asia, a mind of meditation, fascinated an inner fortress; while vulnerable to nights, that gleaming sun, stirred through awakening. We’re slow to find it, this inner strength, taking lumps by design; to rev such persons, a cave within a cave, as censored by authoritarians. I can’t but find you, sitting in minds, this meadow of madness. I can’t but run—your soul at hearts, pulling for a private reason: this world of needs; this velvet adventure; this lifelong interrogation. I saw a palm, threshed with stigmata, a bit angry with—Our Lord; where cabinets rattle, while chains speak—this broken type of freedom; to enter slavery, our wills as men, indebted to our savior. I watch as riddled, gazing at nonsense—money has purchased our choices; this thing of actions, to ignore atrocities, while pleading for fairness; this bias version, this morbid actuality—siding solely a personal thought. It shouldn’t be real, this type of daymare, this conscious anxiety—or unconscious angst, a passion by art, centered in our souls; but this is rain, as infinitive love, where ours is challenged by fate; that inner scream, trekking molasses, rowing upstream; this twofold miracle, bouncing through seas, alert to kindness; this needed affair, a bit out of touch, plus, a bit deceptive; to meet your eyes, as bold as thieves, a tear too detached; where this is life, a whetstone to a soul, building through loneliness.