in
aging, most learn the waves are dangerous, most observe their pasts. I was
trained to see, too gander, pomegranates are messy.
I
see parts, pieces, I piecemeal a puzzle.
some
fantasies are forbidden, the first fruit—it can never be redeemed, the first
wound is ever a memory. this, too, is conjecture.
a
soul watches. some are ancient. they call us familiar beings. we operate
differently.
I
was in her eyes, she touched my shoulder, we walked away.
beauty
becomes its investments—either it remains, or it’s banished; rawest behaviors,
bestial traits, forgetfulness.
rain
mizzles inside, a woman is mistreated, she has fallen for vinegar—its taste,
its pungent sting, unable to rinse the mud.
many
will fight for passion, some will fight for status quo, others will run faster.
air
is wide spread. it seems painful. seated alone with air.
eight
minutes to five a.m., tides are ebbing softly, poetry is interpreted in some
country. realness suffocates, it prefers its phantoms, while most argue over
clarity. I know a few, including myself, we wrangle over perception. I know
another, she sees me, I ask, has she stopped at her mirror. if so, what comes
to her, has time weakened conceptions?
a
philosopher deals with her own. academia abroad deals with likeness. many
avenues have alienated scholasticism.
it’s
said Plato was a man of words. I read closer to see estrangement, a slight
disagreement with thoughts. times change, change is coming, we might notice the
language.
birth
is tragedy. life is lessons. death is not a release.
fair
to one, cherished by another, dragged through turmoil by some.
I
understood nuance, subtlety, so overt one is stung. I sought wisdom. I went
underground. I nearly made a mistake. I was idealistic, religion was idyllic,
the secular kept tugging. science in our eyes, there’s a median, it’s hard to
measure—there’s a scale, totally symbolic. sure obstinance will attack. it will
breathe fireballs. it will become a dragon—chasing, blowing fury, contending
its case. better. a man will cross too many bridges, assailed by his wit, many
dreams will become dead-ends.
there
breeds activity. we see visions. I apologize for exposure. the leg of the
horse, the broken spoke, the moths in the car; many wedges, color becomes
intrusive, we might prefer leniency.
reading
me is not a problem. believing what’s seen becomes too much surface. I do this
also.
skeptics
asserted the top cannot be overlooked. it’s all one has. (it’s still shallow.) most are not open, remain hidden, even in
our brains.
I
understand the war on fears, those delicate locusts, streaming probability. the
campfire illuminates a certain area. the guitar is striking images. most are
still ambivalent. such ambiguity, mimicry, sudden transcension; palms filled
with activity, souls churning issues, close enough to see our disconnection.
I’ve
become cynical, studying euphemisms, hearing sirens in the distance. I drift at
times, observing a beautiful reality, conditioned to believe in chastity; a
hampering peg, a gem in disguise, asking, if possible, shall it come?
I
know brilliant women. we might clash again.
(submission is taught), inculcated, exposure breeds resistance. one
resists self, for self is conditioned, self must be retaught.
most
people are unique, we experience differently, I know one refusing to receive
reality; not as imposed, more as actuality, one prefers to believe in fantasy.
it frightens!
life
undergoes edits.
pain
is instrumental.
structure
is hostile.
