It’s
been some time, at zenic practices, fueled as alive wavering through feelings:
that inner presence, to have met a yogi, sentenced to differentiation. We love
unknowingly, this bittersweet war, infested with locusts—where life is powers,
this realm we pash, seated at mahogany trestles: inking diaries, fiddling a
pomegranate, peeling a nectarine—as one invented, by so many arms, at mercy
this grace to Yahweh. I remember distance, aloof to color, plus, a bit
circumspect: this furious temper, a bit camouflaged, scraping sky-blueness—as
more a woman, adorned by mishaps, as refined in our soul’s furnace; but less to
attributes, as more to mystery, this relentless magic; where arts crawl, to
capture a glimpse, as waning through tyranny. I’ve adjusted slowly, at war with
feelings, as to imagine a conversation: two tyros speaking mystically; or more a denial, to dishearten light, while carrying
sorrow’s softness; that dream to love, as flickering through soot, amazed by
desert smog: that cryptic voice, as cryptic thumps, as a bit flustered. It
becomes chaotic, this thing of concentration, as is centered in intentions:
that too close planet, pushing through hemispheres, at moments, a tile towards
zealous; to flee as flying, as returning to mirrors, as pitted at our
center-point. I’m back to life—those years abroad, fettled by ambition—while
seated deathly, peering at visions, etching this running image: as nigh afar,
probed by secret yearnings, at course with several souls: that bodhi atmosphere; that super-intuition;
those scales released through intestines; that arch we travel, adrift a beige
moon, at favors but a bit moody—if be it life, as treasured this realm, melding
for melting into mirrors. I do confess—this churn of passions, at rainbows
infested with beauty; to see us as deadly, confined to barriers, while
wrestling humility: this wealth of arts, as digging through minds, alert to
mischief properties: that revving engine; that tyrant cycle; those lows for
highs as rocket-ships; as digging deeper, to remember an image, while sadness
wafted a near distance: that cultic music, afforded one dream, while to perish
through negligence. (It becomes a river, shifting at churns, too enlightened
for otherwise; as reading life, at forces for correlations, while realizing
something breathes—as breeding canines, or a telic feline, where riddles become
obsolete: that casual intensity, while seated at eternity, our opera tiptoeing
brains; to linger by choice, if but to fools, where conditions dictate
intensities—as deep within, this natural sin, fleeing into gravity).
