by
virtue of illness such phantom squall we eclipse understanding. you discern
gently. music is sadness. unveiled roaming sky-creeks. so many lines. such squiggly
centipedes or days just sitting in space. strict wildfire or sullen depression
while we sense life is heavy. what is this this roaring blizzard this cave
inside while a child peeks from curtains? (Selah) we know in part our mirror is
cloudy our perception afflicted by soot. to account for accessories or to need
certain attributes while so somber it feels like loneliness; but one is there
merely listening where disaster is richness silence. a palm filled for breakfast
a palm filled for dinner while such flux ought to seem exhilarating. there is
such pride in essence to dance substance as a community pillar; those zesty
feelings where one is subjective peering by objectivity—to feel certain shift
to announce it internally while something standard seems apparent; or fantastic
imageries in something leaping while in time most hobbies are strenuous. but
highs for lows or dirge-smiles where most are concerned with being enlove. our
reflexive selves or our ambiguous image where nearby a violinist is chatting
with interior ghosts. so much charity so much tar while one didn’t see those
screams; a face exits a face, a sky deserves more sky, or Love discloses an
unbroken home.
