It
becomes electric, this voice in souls, a bit pregnant with mystery; to measure
as fact, this contradiction, as answering so little; this space as airborne,
this wave as brain-islands, our haze but a tare eating at hearts; to awaken by
motion, such steep concentration, our ears popping—our aches rattling, that
inner fusion, as merging with thoughts—to exchange frustration, as seeping into
majesty, this blazing too but sacred
for weakened faith. I read interior,
this tragic magazine, our confidence running afflicted with taints—this crumbling tome, as disguised
our weariness, while furniture speaks to feng shui—this jar of fireflies, that
ladybug watching, our wings pruned to perfections—if but to flights, this long
wilderness, to pant at brooks so close to deer; indeed, by captures, this
cistern of souls, while pausing deep enough to evaporate: that trickling
trance; that picture perfect caption; those days I gazed in silence—where this
is life, our generators feeding instincts, our minds wresting with illusions—to
hear a sound, as filtered through pains, our ears disputing intentions—as more
a soul, sliced by existence, where that person spoke void of motives. I listen closely, dispersing my SOS, while
filled with voltage; this arc by lights, that inner library, our feelings
seated at our consensus: those teary lenses, as preaching our history, our
arteries pouring into our escapes—those beige emotions, as a woman by
trimesters, this glass shattered to ceilings; as dissipating silence, abreast a
cave-soul, scribbling cartoons: that cyan towel; that green soap; such as water
re-baptizing minds: such as tone-ships, this delicate ego, living an inner
overseer: that cryptic volt, such inner inquiry, to wonder if it stems from
more than seconds. Our nights are
falling; our songs are soaring; we come to that familiar lagoon] as dressed in
essence, while to listen to breathing, our spouses gazing to feather our souls;
this life as given, some mothers to graves, while children explore lights: this
casual envy, as sore an occurrence, to push a series of buttons—where birds are
chanting, this space by appraisals, as one perfects this element of business:
that edgy art, by flutes to wings, our early morning orchestras: that thing for
spelling, as to summons a word, while such hides laughing maniacally; indeed, I
jest, but some would fathom, our ceramic interests; as never it tires, this
essence to witness, while ever is runs its laps: that inner indigo, a touch
effected with sadness, where errands become this fantastic hobby: that child
upon skates; that son surfing; that daughter with this fetish for spiritual
literature; in truth, to watch her, as mother recruits her, to guide her to a
den of self-revelation.
