I passed a mirror, by little reflections,
dialing this purple sky: as dreams appeared, as characters unfolded, those
traits presumed through association. I
flickered a lighter, as to spark a clove, a palm filled with vitamins: at least
something, sorting through turmoil, affected without recourse: this sight of
hummingbirds; this squirrel creeping; this city of alley cats. I felt teary, as it wouldn’t fall, sharing a
condensed steak. I pictured psychs,
therapists, and professors: those inner ghosts, pulled by realities, a bit
ashamed without rationalities: this fan spinning; this ceiling mute; this
feeling assumed as this dry county. I
thought of grandmother, that solitary life, waging essential wars—this cut in
genetics; this steep aloofness; but everso close affecting essence. I sat in sunlight, flint to muscles, gazing
upon a butterfly. I thought about,
Precious, this lot to souls, this dearth of aging—as according to life, frantic
for reasons, at territorial silence. I
paused at gravel, sensing a white petal, this urgency to enter our worlds:
those stark recessions, those polished eyes, that glossy overview: as permanent
cycles, or permanent battles, while many keep to simplicity: this rare secret,
while pleading release, to shift at seconds in reality: where wax drips, this
burnished table, this chair sectioned with expectation: if but to beauty, to
witness affectation, and not merely emoted; but rather, sewn into
heart-spheres, this delicate friend, our spouses sharing our anguish. I mopped this feeling, this field of pines,
as a clove burned slothfully: this feeling for reaching, to adore essence,
while life is constructed through circumstance: those nursing kittens; those
temperamental coyotes; this systematic rooster: if but to screensavers, this
easy observation, but humans become every habit embedded within
psychologies—this sense to gaze-upon, this chimpanzee, recognized by sorrowful
inertia: this moving vehicle, at tears inside, if but conscious enough to
distinguish distinctions. (I’m back at
mirrors, this conglomerate soul, secerning between thoughts: this feeling she
gave me; this reason for journaling; this belief that consciousness becomes
lethal: as too many shifts, alert for calm, while rerouted at several exits: this
steep egress, as purified entrances, at one with myriads of electricity;
indeed, but one, indeed, but two, at tender awareness with each emotion: to
plague self, while connected afar, this womanly soul mechanically discovering
an ancient address: as life soothes, as so it aches, we find this appreciation
for serenity’s space). I’m caressing
fabric, without a laugh, presuming these intensities as normal behavior: this
evasive mirror, while running from capture, to understanding that we rarely
understand: if but a feeling, we debate its source, stumbling upon universal
experiences: this day to sadness, as pushing forward too much, where overly
active senses become gloomy. So, we sit,
or find activities, or brood unto discoveries: this portrait unremembered; this
feeling shifting; our assumptions effaced: this small circle, this enormous
existence, our pleasures to sparking sol enlightenment.
