While
to worry this space, we immortalize fear, as something viable: we imagine
hells, to wrestle illusions, this mental battle. I see a sage, so young, so
wise, experiencing adulthood. It comes by nature, this rigged beast, while
pitted through behaviors: that stern outlook; that sudden compassion; that
shift in temperaments; something unstable—is stability, in absence we groan. I
read Blavatsky, peering at Theosophy, as to realize certain threads: this
immortal challenge, scripted in ink, where love becomes a metaphor. I shall
explain. To utter love, is to suggest likes and dislikes, while to honor a
particular bias: I love you as friend; I love you as daughter: I love your
style; by this love measures—a series of affections, whereby, love is a
definition; but less of this, and more of that, whereto, love becomes energy:
this subtle rift, for souls are powerful, while to deceive by an inner thump.
It’s so sublime, as so detached, an art becoming haywire—but dearly immortal,
shifting at segments, immortalizing a daughter. I’ve felt mother, fraught with
secrets, cringing outcomes, loathing his soul; or reading daily, while gleaning
gifts, as to feed the immortal—that part of self, longing for its nature, as
mischief as pure; but “Make hard thy soul against the snares of self; deserve for it the name of
“Diamond Soul””; where this is living, as to witness more things, while rarely
to exhaust an aspect of living: this feeling of songs; that ecstatic chant;
those ways by daughters our eyes; to die as living, as to die no more—this
penultimate chase; where mothers battle, as fathers resist—this dire need for
energies: that shift in time; that realm of patience; while to appease her
curiosity. We speak it rarely, this conglomerate of feelings, while peering at
existence; but more to daughters, learning those methods—pure novitiates
lacking confusions; while feeling arrival, a false immortality, while to age
with lightning: “But thou hast heard it, thou knowest all, O thou of eager,
guileless Soul…and thou must choose. Then hearken yet again.” It seems for
riddle, to choose that thing, as seated as immortal; that cryptic energy, to
align thoughts, to glow as a square box: this challenge of sights, those
immortal thoughts, while pushing fates through mind-stuff—to come as one, but
still at wars, to gain a measure of lifeforce: this music dreaming, to notice a
shift, as mindful as sages; to alight illusions, as to know realities, to
realize this chaos—while seeing order, that deep paradox, as nothing new—but
ever a sameness, whereto, are dangers, this shifting as to change it; but more
to daughters, fleeing as to fly, fevered through energies.
