Tugging II

It could be you—but why such terror, this person of shadows; to aggravate souls, this religious man, probed by sins; to come for sickness, this lose of feelings, to feel this breach. We live by powers, this selfish outlook, to believe they couldn’t see. It arrived at night, this pushing essence, as to speak at morning. It could be you, this inner yogi, bent on something, a crying irritation; or it could be me, this shift in weather, a book completed: that not for casual, this gravid soul, as dancing through so many sentences; or it could be you, dealing with something weird, while going through changes; or it could be us, so broken in parts, so wise in wisdom; to ponder mercy, this eight week run, as filled with thoughts; to resonate at signs, to sort through symbols, to pause our eyes glossy; this pagan notion, as attached in rituals, to stir up a volcano; as time erupts, our mothers watching, as some souls writhe with vengeance; to wish us dead, for something unseen, while not to speak of injustice. It gasps through eyes, this strong woman, at seconds, a lady cringing; this furious field, this song of men, this feeling of absence; to search for self, as to find that part, while losing essence; this need for grace, as pieced through texts, to die through a kind gesture; this waking soul, filled with chi, to push through a holy texture; as to ignite a furnace, when thought to put to rest—this vest of tragedies. It couldn’t be life, to want with passion, while to hold to hopes forever; but these are grains, to hope in promise, this substance of that unseen. It tears our guts, to have that hunch, attached to hypotheses; as never to retreat, as pushing for responses, ashamed to know we pushed for naught; this bent upon powers, to have that effect, as to wonder of something nonchalant; as hebetated deeply, this pressing of buttons, as one that cried wolf; but it could be a group, pressured by brains, as to witness this shift in nature: those blue clouds; that nectar of changes; that realization; but never us, as torn through mishaps, as misperceiving channels; those inner wings, as private thoughts, to want for this thing; where tempers seethe, as directing chi, while persons feel uneasy; but this is life, some type of magic, where energies are soon to wisdom; this letting live, this deep surrender, that felt epiphany.