Sacred Circles (I am Thankful)

Wherefrom this feeling, this measure of holiness, seeping into heartcaves; that unique energy, to strike as flame, this floating current? I know for names, this myriad of souls, as pledged to eternity; to see for faces, to infuse our winds, this nature of musings; as gifted love, those years at wars, to morph by study a fire; this privy art, through hearts that feel, as silence has become power: this inner engine, as sitting stillness, intent those minds to millions; as songs to sing, to imbue persons, seated at wavelike dimensions. We sprint afar, this storm of souls, skilled by brains that motion; as times are hectic, that season of nothingness, but little desire for newness. Our daily riddles, composed by electricity, as afloat at evening those joys; where voices are sung, wrestling our troubles, positioned to relax by chance; this holy fever, our realm of love, compelled to enter those worlds; as seeing life, as proud to give, our alms but a section of time. I feel a force, this present fire, to wonder about those thoughts: that sudden flicker; that slight sadness; those passions fleeing hearts; to evolve as sparks, this cosmic train, thrumming through eternity; to smile a bit, over menial tasks, that instance of comfort; as seeing turquoise, or a jasper rose, this inner cyan feeling; as castled to live, this weight in time, to dissipate but a smidgen. We love as souls, communing with brains, those fervent hearts; where minds blend, becoming one with hearts—that deep feeling as airborne—this song of hurts, as this joy to sprinkle, into this metaphysical furnace: that feeling of warmth; where eyes would water; as not a tear to fall; for this is living, to feel a friend, or one by chance that frequency. I ponder names, too uncertain to stare, as this world remains secluded; to know by chance, those rare occasions, while silent but thankful to love. It comes with heart, this person digging—as deep concentration; or more a secret, as not to speak, pushing into mystics this frequency; as feeling us daily, that shift in consciousness, as to turn that volt of living; this yogic stream, or christic souls, or traditions flooding our atmosphere; as dying to respond, while seated in motion, where arts probe nature; to conjure a name, as to finally let live, while circled in love. I wonder of groups, spread afar, while tapping into frequencies; this world of strangers, waving through life, at course to feel that fire: our morphing worlds; our fevered souls; our likeness as spirits; to fly so freely, at course, this type of freedom, while sullen a bit for infinity.