Unlock that Feeling (Clarity is often Muddy)

While space has us, this miracle in seconds, to near an aura; that essence, indeed, as to sickle with brains—just a touch of that space: these limits as bars, associated with scars, aglow by method those styles; this analytical, threshed by emotions, while to have died to gain it: as soil to roots, or kiln to seas, as warm enough to decode sparks; that tile through hearts, as embedded in lights, where grays become a platform: that deep excursion, as ink to souls, while structured by reason. We advance slowly, seated in subtleties, either to embarrass of compliment moments; that fair exchange, as words are seeping, this wondering of what was said; as lax with time, that tinge of guards, where we didn’t flinch; but oh with motive, as gates are charged, to see this thing of insights. It’s crucial this vex, as something simple, to realize such as dying; this field of loquats, this juice by minds, to compose weary of this message; as claiming reality, lost for confirmation, as dependent solely on analysis; or more that spirit, as cultivated for decades, peering at instruments; this curve by nature, swimming through chi, this vest as partially holy. I need to forget, as one that’s vulnerable, taken by passions; to ask this art, while sipping water, a bit concerned with sobriety; to ask that question, concerning disposition, this person as pieces fit: that faraway grin; that roaring IQ; that pain that takes sabbaticals; or more these thoughts, as clear as murky—our puddles positioned as plural: this changing of styles; this whisk through dimensions; that appearance as if the phone isn’t ringing; or more it is, as to answer with silence, as to scream at analysis; this torn departure, as returning home, to ask that elusive song—for more than rhythm, that mental cadence, to garner a glimpse through mirrors; where souls are one, as to soon break free, while to give but that reason for inquiries; this art by roses, as keen to life, as never to ignore a rooted scar; but never to hamper, as time is essence, as to address but a fraction. I need to remember—this wealth of seeing, if but a certain correlation; where muddy becomes clear, as clear becomes muddy, this flux through minds; to rely on senses, while peering at data, if but to unlock that feeling; this drilling of souls, this ink to hearts, as moving gently.