…too
much indecision, therein, too much non-existence, while we aim for excitability:
this medicinal, mechanic jargon, carrying indebted weights, or struggling, even
suffocating, so lost in perception: skipping topics, this battle with
religiosity, while it’s good, it carries too many insistencies: aborted
seekers, ocean skies, our seas supporting stars: our silent flowers, our
suggestible instincts, so close to beauty, needing new life, and passing over
opportunity: those gray spots, those green blades, walking a great distance
tucking clumps of grass: those recital years, so caged by provocation, so
managed by ideals: skipping topics, but similar in vein, this approach to
spirituality: our natural wounds, our deeper hemispheres, our synaptic
entourage: so close to Love, so afar and drifting into Love, so cursed and
delighted: this responsible inconsistency, this portal so ephemeral, at
galaxies grounded in earth space: those manta instincts, swimming into
dimensions, so incredible with sensories: our gray sun, our red spacial
terrors, so accursed, so special, at internal war-cares: while animals dream,
or humans have visions, where songs carry mnemonic crystals: so Born Again, or
so yogi a flier, or so mystic a churn: this whelm of insistencies, this casual
place for happiness, while it becomes too overwhelming: those Maserati
sensations, those vertical forests, those trees beginning to bud: our steeper
barks, our steeper climbs, at evening tea debating several boulders: those bird
shows, this dazzling performance, or those seasons for mating: these beautiful
displays, this terrific intake, so concerned about our condition…!
I’ve
acquired an instinct, sitting in public, gathered in resonance: so akin to
love, this chase through skies, this never-ending desire: our crowded
starlings, picking ornaments, so reborn with permission: smoldering vats,
incandescent pearls, defying resistance: so gone in one person, so relocated by
a gesture, so stable and unsteady: as paradox gives, this life or
excitabilities, our dreams tiptoeing mandolins: at pie with feelings, at
seaweed with toes, our senses clouded by expectation: such a hundred years, at
raging subtleties, our primitive emotions: so desperate to have one, so
inclined to study one, at frustration, and satisfaction, while able to enjoy
those tested feelings: over-revved sensations, or plain disappointments, such a
Great Rift: those canopies, those teepees, our drier islands: at peaches and
plums, or fish and fire, so powerfully fueled: indeed, these three elements, so
akin to existence, while forever threads push our minds: so captured by others,
this community of secrets, while something holy probes our awareness.
…so
solace and solitude, so open and closed, or so helpful with observation: this
filmed frustration, this soft meow, or suggestibility disproving its
toleration: our blanket hearts, our nomad curiosity, while boxed in
trepidation: our ability to soar, while avoiding sky-webs, where interior is
restructured: those looming lamps, this facial concern, our insecurities tapped
and mapped: this need for believing, this challenge to worship, while something
scientific offers a bit of coldness: our human proclivities, our jesting
seriousness, at moons and stars while bathing in sunlight: so deep with wishes,
our fantasy zones, leering into evening thunder: our barks as mazes, our souls
as gated, while we pine over brief encounters: this shoulder for love, this
animosity for love, where souls become hermits: at warmer distances, or too
close for understandings, at higher tiers so concerned….
