it
would fly as right into me some venture or chord upon a heart-thought. while
watching where death was lethal the kitchen was smoky. knee to an ottoman or
carpet to a cheek with excellence nudging its resistance. I was keen on flowers
they seemed gorgeous they always were couth; the flame in the bolt the fire in
the man, he might court a flower. but something is afoot some ignescent sky
something to muse by speculation. those tired anxieties those weary agendas as
ghosts in our own lives. too many books while this is absurd but a good book
clicks souls. so many daffodils or a polite jamesia at some ally two blocks
north. (people. music. drugs and cadence. a soul feels it’s missing adventure.)
but autumn is near those rays are glistening such a glint in a personality.
I would watch her as she walked like
swimming her aura was fluid. I would listen, as no one should, I would unbuckle
spirit. a person becomes different, if rivers are drained, where we die of
starvation. bridges burnt fires quenched while we never quench our furnace. a
spasm in a conversation. a person races into overdrive. something said so
delicate it never receives remedy. to hold pain to eat anguish to feel like a
curse is growing inside. like an omen in ribs, or a dragon in a womb,
frightened it might gnaw its way out.
but I adored her or loved her until I
couldn’t tolerate her.
years would pass. I would meet her –
as over and over again. she had new faces new styles but the aura, the essence,
it was ever the same. more years would pass, a man became a monk, but dragged
back into society.
a soul surrenders, as it frets
little, or fooling himself in order to feel like flying. caves in feelings.
bashful but bold. adrift where cards are meant for reading.
such colorful cries in such solace
too holy to feel filthy!
