I think
about freedom. The freedom to love. The freedom of clarity. Our green pastures,
alive a turquoise night, such radicalized fey. Our sincere planets, forever
faithful, our stars as nibs. Careful to persuade you. Careful to cherish you. Where
a man palms ash. Those dying leaves. Those seasons for life. Such a miracle inside
a bad person. But god-speed, rephrasing interior messages, if but to maintain
something volatile. Weaving miracles. Challenged by forgiveness. Seeking a yogic
breakthrough. Our simple prose. While touching humanity. Where something
desires purity. If but to believe, if but to re-treasure something lost, where
wolves gather, sit in unison, and dine as sophistication. Our holy festoon,
terrified to sing, but a person trying by rules. Our mindstuff haywire. But a
rasp to a kernel. But sweet corn and pork. So carried in acrylics. At something
seeming un-right. Where webs and cobbles speak indifference. But something is
unfastened; and something desires closure; while loving has never posed this
terror.
It was
late afternoon. I ate a treat. And wires grew into displeasure. / I was
enveloped harshly. It was hell to believe in footprints. But Love was casual, a
rare talent. But ever afraid. / —for pain was arising, looking dismayed, where
some behaviors are quite natural. We feel so little, especially, something
selfish, where irrationality builds a home. Our magenta rice. Grandmother
cooking. (Where a person watches and wonders about you). Such in-crowd relations;
every person an ex; while serenading some interior portrait. But I ate a
trefoil. I drifted into suppression. This land fraught by bees. Something stung
me. An old experience noosed me. And Love knew those ribbons were revealed. /
It becomes eraser time. As knowing purity blackdamp. While dismissing a trail of
havoc. Such raw erasers. Ever in their favor. Where a person is expected to
carry Jesus. Those family fables. This great island. Where pains are never our
doing.
A soul
loses respect—for not submitting—where gut tells total disgusts!
But time
is gentle. If a person remains silent. Oh’ if I would’ve remained silent. Where
pain would grow ulcers. And brains would grow tumors. While faces would save
grace. But this is appropriate. In a selfish cauldron—for our reality is
cherished more than your sanity. / It’s natural to upchuck ghosts. It’s tender
to hold while cringing. Plus, a little romance would serve us justice. Such studded
neuroses. Such aberrant behavior. While Grandmother is pleased with science. Our
vicarious trips. Becoming something slanted. While our thoughts are more
seduction. So close it aches. So un-pure it organizes. While needing that
amazed gaze.
I wore
a frown. I chuckled softly. And I must admit, through hell I felt modicum release.
I walked a cliff, rehashing this leaping adventure, where a person relies upon
Jesus. This desperate surrendering. This promised newness. If but this wrenching
discomfort! But days were unnormal—and pleas were answered snail-pace, while
faculties were numbed. I wandered wildly. Re-stitching this missing self. Where
it comes with surprise—but it doesn’t come back! / That jiving coolness, or un-suffering,
even gentle, and misguided-naïve spirit. / Something relinquishes its ghost,
while trekking its desert, gloating about some euphemism. “Those nasty persons.
Those filthy humans. Or better, those other people!” But tales spoke tenderly. This
loss was detrimental. Where Love had treaded this mountain a dozen or more
times. / Indeed, this loving, forgiving family. Looking into something understood
as dishonest. And never granting an inkling of empathy. Such reach, to ignore
ethnicity, or to call it an isolated occurrence!
