unhooked
or chained. happy or saddened. some auras seem familiar. the grave-point is
humility, souls arriving at promise, as creatures’ despair to become immortal.
an all-day second, an all-year minute, a decade composed of hours. to increase,
another must desist, we will not worship several giants. it was an early
morning. a blue-green duck appeared. I thought to circular systems. certain
habits. certain charms. “Life shouldn’t be serious.” I suppose this is true
scraping at ditches amusing some pit, or getting into a decent feeling.
I was blessed with a curse or a
temperament which confuses souls.
near a dreamcatcher sat a bottle of
ink, the pallor was closing. The Venice pathway was cluttered, graffiti paved
those alleys, most eyes seemed glossy. the sun was down. night was becoming its
influence. some shops remained opened. I walked its length, treading the line, until
I reached Sunset. certain memories such fraught flames as we never know how
others behave – in solace or with others, there hast to be reason when we
cleave to one another. the Shrine was closed. I made it to Brentwood. most
anything was opened. I got a cool tattoo – the artist was jonesing – I paid,
waited, and he finished the work. (I kept to my trail.)
a lady was speaking about bodies and
worms or concrete vs. abstracts. I listened, looked, and saw her lotus. it shined.
her eyes were spiritual. it always amazes me. some argue for a sex life. others
are deep into meditation. while others practice healthy thoughts. pure
edification, or it didn’t matter, such people carry luminosity.
days would pass, a soul would be in
a grater, with feelings like onions.
memories are inspiring. some hurt.
others cause a smile. but an illness memory might take on elements, or scars,
or foggy glasses. they might stick around. while we must confess, most memories
appear without a summons – albeit, we are able to summons them. a little
grayness in a jacinth color where most blues make apt skies.
I sit in offices. I look at
authorities. it’s life without cameras. I read a book. I put it down. I fret a
muse. so close to getting it right, or here aura things are legit, while a
crevice speaks to too much sodium. sauce on language, an identity more
illuminating, a person must keep to the lines.
some are baffled. those lines mean
nothing. but we dislike ourselves. those lines have reason, they set the
demarcations, they paint society. but here’s a riddle: Why can’t line-watchers
get along with those that discard lines? the fury of the color, temperaments
are different, auras are distinct.
(line-watchers tend to be rigid.
others seem to be fluid.
what happens when the audience is
acting in a way perceived as false, or pretend?
at what point does one trust their
judgement?
lastly, if a person trusts self, am I
allowed to sift self?)
