Thursday, December 22, 2016

Soul-Thoughts

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.

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...