It’s been
difficult for moons, gazing afar, drifting through fantasies; those skeptic
waves, suspended in mid air, pining through observations; to die with shame,
those terrible demons, to see you’re grafted in energies. It’s more a puzzle,
this piccolo by arts, this paper our names scribbled in ink; somewhat to
perish, as finding joy, that box, our nightmares; as trembling songs, sewn at
souls, this sweet and soothing sensation. We cried for laughing, this
troublesome scream, to set loose that one that flies; to jet afar reality, as
some sort of jester, confronted by said reality; this artisan’s picture, this
Sufi’s charm, this mystic by pillars a scoundrel; to change that instance,
where they espouse to oldness, that sin by way of ignorance; this casual
madness, to fabricate a mirror, these needs to feel superior. It becomes a
reason, to soar through mire, washed as angels by sunlight; this furious fire,
our sad predicament, while fleeing that realm of pragmatists; but logic is
keen, this atypical meth, this place of Sanders Pierce; that trenchant mind,
commended by William James, these intellectual archetypes. It had to become
major, this epistemic, or more this metaphysic; that grand assertion, that
knowledge is sensory—while deduction has its boundaries; to cry your name,
enflamed by pure thoughts, while something pushes behind our hearts; this
silent force, to infuse a nation, as we sort through fires—that lethal charm,
those reaching tentacles, that threshold by arts this vortex; to call it
nonsense, this small investment, while employing nonsensical devices; that
origin by minds, to morph as by nature, as to hide from unsaid realities; this
thing of passions, to hurt while musing, offended but thankful for that
feeling; this space as wings, this museum of Plato, stippled this telic affair;
to read Spinoza, as to sail with Leibniz—the madness of John Stuart Mill; as
born to fates, featured in tragic comedies, to arise as a legend; but more your
heart, abandoned by carnivals, peering into Kierkegaard; this rustled soul,
sipping as to breathe, affected by sheer beauty; that mind of Simone, that
courage of Davis, those lines of Ambrose; to sing your song, as never a glance,
this inner web; to soar with Hildegard, that pensive ecstasy—traced by
conditions.
