let the magic be
the beauty. nightsong owls. like firebirds.
losing sanity, or
piecing the puzzle, more time for exhaustion. the phantom curse, those
barriers, nibbling tumbleweeds. found in a vision, knowing its art, arranged to
become literature. if good, it gets wicked; if bad, it suffers goodness—a deficit
either direction.
a man tries
harder, since passed biblic cuffs, monitored by his antennas. like needing x,
desiring y, moving towards absence. a gray apple, an inner dragon, a monster in
the seas.
too appeasing, too
incredible, it gets more difficult to make that claim. like pantomime watchers,
dear deeper insights, running faster to hear the picture.
poverty orphans.
rehearsed understanding. if repeated enough, it feels actual.
it must be love,
as an entity/affirmation, like roses in a sad state. it must be mother, right
at my shoulder, we age suspended in disbeliefs. most accurate science, each
time, same results; most approved hubris, always in sociality.
passed a billiard’s
lounge next to a poolhall, up the way from a liquor bank. looked intently,
serviced by my voice, so huge the ways we die. if destiny, it’s long but short;
if astounded, it seems to make sense—no clear way of knowing, anything said is
negated in its utterance.
too much
philosophy. it’s not serious enough. we can’t deny each thought.
many built for
systematic doubt, many play with it, others die with it. what we have is
something authoritative with a dislike for authority. what we have is
contradiction, melancholy, and systematic suppression—as ongoing mind control.
or, sweet appreciation, without need of anything, aside for utter peace for the
beloved.
