we
can’t say enough where eagles give lectures or falling becomes inhibited. so
much silence where souls would watch while family members tumble into pits; to
love adoringly such at harm’s venue while so close it feels claustrophobic. but
souls need affection even if it distresses while a whisper asks, “Have I more
freedom?”
the
soul was beleaguered the battle was bellicose while a mystic struck into fire.
if lingering, we find a mirror. if
deliberate, we monitor remnants; else, a festoon forms: sure misfunction or
ethic-molasses where many are asking about morals. it comes with adoring or
loving where worship is always an option. I say so little where a good point is
unveiled but belaboring science disproves its validity.
we
appeal to intuition. we join the cult-intellect. so much becomes ordinary. (as
a woman lives, she breathes pain while she distributes art. or a man uneasy,
despite, facts, while he desires to gallop into winds.)
I can’t fix invisibility. I can’t
outwit inveterate damage. nor can a person unwire sheer conviction. the world
is so flat, the ocean falls into oblivion, the earth is our vehicle. so dead to
listening, or so surefire of facts, while a moment, an epiphany, or a
convergence unfetters the unkept mind. it seems like an inner riot, where words
float into orbit, as pictures, or sentences, flash, whisper, or scream. I would
save you disappointment, rage, or concrete melting, as the soul unvet(s) so
much it has died to believe. (so wordy, so voiced, while talking his place is a
challenge.) mother has passed, granny has hit an exosphere, while one day it
will manifest—something too keen too unexplainable where this world will open
gently: our need for existence, our social ingredients, while the greatest
breath is freedom that one second!
I can’t
force the fighter to take a dive; I can’t force the chef to undercook pork;
while I can’t force intellect to wink at its absolutes: you know your agenda,
you have stirred your tea, where you have decoded those deeper secrets; a bit
of sarcasm, but a bit of truth, for reality is in you. (to take a palm or to
talk a frenzy while too much is reason to feel alarmed; to protest too much to
die so early while a person never takes initiative; the pain is anguish, the
anguish is anger, the anger often takes the countenance.)
truth is like a massacre. it
trumpets an indictment. most people use it to their advantage, where it keeps
them in anonymity. but truth is not an issue, where dolor is, as days seem to
speckle into one temper.
