We
scribble sketches even etchings while creating pictures. Our porcelain garments
our holy ink-guts at something incredibly implausible.
I
look at you, in this sixth sense, afraid to get near you. I walk contrary, even
180 degrees, to arrive at your mind-posts. I languish or repent I arise or
retreat and you appear with a smirk.
I
frighten you this improbability while windows rattle and carpet melts in an
inordinate atmosphere—we awaken sooner!
It was terrible neglect,
where gestures were ghosts, while subliminal masochism was knitting. But a
creature as never an inkling or so astute men can’t see you. Some have lost
that gift, they have become too wise, where an aura has become its identity.
I
won’t bore with overtures or fantastical praise-locks where one is treading
thin ice; but days are curious a shadow seems ecliptic while I can’t find that
childlike something; in fact, I have fire to resolve I have fire to soar but I can’t
find fire to adore. Such a problem man, always rethinking, while mother said
father was just the same.
I
was reaping doubts or raking leaves at some ancient tree stump. The sun was
purple those blades were sweaty where I saw an image. I see it now this man at
love while unlikely at love.
It doesn’t infuse that
way—it seems like something Grecian—it must have arrived from shamans. I will
turn this topic—I will live in this—but I will never saturate cries!
The
moon is alert, although it mingles, indeed, it is in that other city. Those ears
such lucidity those palms such spider-dusts or nights seated where she breathes.
Our lavish predicament as sung by Egyptians where daughters are prized as
queens.
I
heard a tale something quite striking—women need that feeling.
Into
soul-psalmists this dreary reality to come too close to forgiving this man;
this bad creature this unrelenting specimen where some flames are fevered in
brains; our art as arcs our charity as selective or our feelings as paramount.
But silence is buzzing
this face is right there this eerie completion is moving grayly; to unsung
spheres at unwebbed beginnings to war for stable gravel.
Such
softer serenity or an impression of a mandala so sensory and light.
I
sat in stillness it passed shortly I knew an alternate reality.
