Where
souls fly, to orbit outer limits, such wings expand: our fires explosive, as to
channel fey—that instance as mythical; where daughters roam, if but that
moment, exercised in faith. We tender
accounts, this spacey love, at loses for gains; this cycle of fates, studied in
logistics, aloof to naysayers; where life discriminates—this harsh reality,
bearing witness to genetics; this fatal appeal, while tiptoeing facts, at touch
a taste injustice; or more conditions, as fuel to flames, indignant concerning
poverty; while more this life, to realize dementias, as to argue academia.
We
segue hearts, at peace with love, venturing upon another year; where poverty
stands, this lack of inventions, as a family wages war; this easy event, while
practiced in colors—that mediocre mentality; as challenged by love, as
unchanged by life, while decades that position—as rummaging mire, this course
objective, affecting an innocent perspective; where mothers died—that silent
spark, while peering at first causes; this space of facts, as condemning
ignorance—too far gone to remedy pains. We
speak lagoons, feeding a flock of geese, a bit exhausted by sorrows. We hearken
to extremes, as catching our attention, while forced to shift perspectives;
otherwise, we’re deemed as listless, holding to feelings, where evidence is
devalued; but more to hope, where time is waning, while death is fermenting; to
cause for measures, alive at that moment, but still at wars. (It shall not be gentle), as considering
facts, where years are invested in nescience—this fabulous bliss, as kissed
perfection, while ignoring realities; that faraway galaxy, those deep effects,
where hell becomes appealing. It churns a vessel, alarmed by life, while
weighing plural outcomes; as partial his own, where facts would flourish, at
woes to appease something factitious: that pondering grin; that need for
fumigation; those years speaking to signposts; as fraught participation,
relying on truths, while coming to cul-de-sacs—that vacant space, as filled
with emptiness, while wondering of Christians; as too, for Buddhists—this well
of privileges, where vocal humans are disregarded; to plead for justice, some
sort of warming, while coughing up lungs; that hour of mercy, as more that
kitsch, appealing to Thick Nhat Hahn; this monk of services, that inner pleat,
where souls often take refuge; if but for love, while centered in confusion, as
affected by love; that inner movement, that inner second, that deep epiphany;
if but to live, as one with lives, our paws patting God; else, destruction,
floored in fires, forever at wars; where times are harsh, as afforded to drugs,
this artificial bliss; that cadence of miseries, as catering to hopes, while
digging a terrible trench; but less to preaching, as more to love, this soul as
connected to souls; this fabulous flower, as fevered in flames, while favored
as a friendly fuel; this art to hearts, this spark to brains, as roaming our
mindcaves.
