How
would they hear if not for a preacher; and how would they know if untaught? We
take from status, as to rebuild; then we restructure according to our needs.
Hi
love; this steady pace, a trestle as a symbol; to die such mercy, as cursed in
parts, to avoid such truths. It’s pure rhapsody, this inner feeling, to arrange
our love; this nonplus, as silent wisdom, this fantast of screams; to have
agendas, as to see perfection, as to outlive our chants; that deep caress,
while mourning Buddha, despite such splendor. We know war, falling into
mirrors, as forgetting our images; but more that dream, that inner prophecy,
those mahogany symbols; as indelible truths, to know for justice, as to deprive
our inner beasts. I love a swan, this vocal mantra,
our outer soulprints; to voyage through wells, pitted to fly, as to carry
heaviness; this deep soul, that electric dialogue, as seeking self—to live by
graces, adrift through currencies, as forging a silent melody; to part seas, or
open oceans, our rivers traveling through seasons; to dream of love, to chisel
a fortress, to march into madness; this political justice, our ink as blood,
our circuit as universal. I felt agog, to see that face, tearing through
mother’s womb: our outer music; that solemn feeling; our chorus as ecumenical;
where something died, as something lived, this natural cycle: as given webs, or
traveling koans, while pausing brains; this art of life, an inner orchestra, a
maestro as a swan. I love for hearts, to hear us sing, as dipping through
clouds—wherewith, a sign, even a signpost, as participating in existence; to
waft through love, a friend’s linchpin, as to take pride in trust—this miracle
feeling, as returned to justice, while remaining a fire; this terrible art,
this writhing soul, that subtle envy; where parents watch, as guiding by
chance, this tragic example. I saw a phantom, embedded in knots, wrestling for
freedom; to lose for justice, this sight of woes, while too young to war. It
comes in time, this rejuvenation, as senses gain order; but loses live, as to
redeem times, while carrying sorrow; to sing of love, or to pardon literature,
while soaring as a young spirit; to churn in silence, as to imagine eyes, that
quilt of dreams. I thought to fiction, but this is madness, as to outlive
realities; but more to truths, to know infractions, while to forgive with
time; or more to tragedy, that inner denial, that frustrated sanctum; as
feeling flustered, in parts a scream, where souls feel neglected. It must be
life, this series of wounds, as so ubiquitous; where souls writhe, churning in
agonies, as reaching paradise; to unlock arts, or riddle through symbols,
jotting a madrigal. I see porcelain souls, these frantic beings, as pursuing
through tunnels, to drift by notes, a soul to repeats, else, to cherish our
inheritance; this flaming vehicle, sensed through intuition, while singing of
glory—this mystical justice, this praise of lights, while probing a midnight
sun.
