It
gets chilly those summer days attempting to appease where one is set in direction:
to beg forgiveness or become tolerant where one needs for deaths; these warm
irrelevancies or pure disgusts where a person has done so little. That initial
response those initial irritations they never simmer; but a man on stage with
charming laughter (damn near irresistible) however a particular trait;
never-mind us this crew of watchers those hours debating characteristics—or too
somber to associate and too cagey to trust while someone performing gets in,
wreaks havoc, and devastates over a fourth of one’s life. These feelings we
carry beneath undergrowth while flickering and fiddling firebrand; this essence
we lost in remembering one’s ghost or those fragments that live in our spirits;
never-mind us while pursuing something new or selling a sea voyage or designing
a smooth adventure; indeed, this group of complainers this group needing
something pristine, or better, this group still taking a person at their word. Yes!
never-mind the dreary bathwater and a recent baptism or a child asking for
such-and-such.
It
becomes this parachute ride or this paragliding through facts while chasing
down a griffin. It, too, seems this infinite phoenix, this infinite excursion
or this Eddie Bouwer Vest. While accumulating disgraces and feeling worn at
pressure and scope demeaned as un-nice; where birds are zipping and squirrels
are playful our minds, our unconscious minds, re-picture something too
gruesome, or too saturated, while an unwise person might run into another
romance.
It
is Sunday morning and life is retrospection and this future is reknitted by
coming events; as not clairvoyant but more conscious, for events are destined
for each one of us; either by counsel or neatly by council or somewhat haphazardly—those
times to think of such distance while unoffended and having a fair experience;
or a second warm as maybe deliberate where two walked away feeling sparked;
this life by maturity this un-vested adolescent while this thinking and mature
creature takes front stage; our miracles, where one was ripe, and that’s why it
happened! This station in souls as eclipsed and reborn while passion has never
seemed so special; a kettle whistling or a nightmare revealing knowledge or
someone honest making a plea; this want to believe at this feeling received
where beautiful is like two skies parting and then kissing; so thrown into this
need so hopeful losing reason and so uncaged running fast.
I
had to pause and light a clove but a few hear and a few there while deep at
this energy or re-sung in this delight where something purple can cause something
unpleasant; but air is speaking and clouds chime in and atmosphere is concerned with living—this field with peaches this vine with grapes while I relax and
ponder about something horrific; so small this emotion and so loud this feeling
where I wonder: Are some deceiving self in order to live?
Never-mind
us, this class of serious reflection, while many, if not everyone, soon comes
to this space—where equipment becomes crucial. This theory concerning our
substance or this theory concerning our existence or more this theory
determining our perceptions; this want for pure objectivity, this need to
escape this feeling-receptive-self, while dying to return!
