longer winds whistle
by soul, an inward chaos, a faceless actor. too much becomes too little, too
little becomes, it’s passing me by.
someone is power,
endless kinetics, musical currents.
upon a dahlia,
debating cliches, living out something quite informative.
oh whispering
self, dinning within, boxed around fantasies. the nastiness as it becomes, the shield
from public inquiry, the fact—it’s not as ruth, and unscientific.
upon a cloud,
drinking cloudberries, headed to the mind-press.
a glass of
butternut rum—a placeless force—one to three frequencies … generating from one source.
most speculatory
souls, fumbling through discourse, alive, made more observant. days have
passed, in times those years, when souls were susceptible to chaos. now it
happens, where one is situated, while it came that it may pass.
you wouldn’t
believe it, as it comes from its art, you are most photogenic. such electric
features, such rummaging souls, to plummet into a hidden cave. those nights,
seated in nakedness, no one knows your thoughts—to hear bodies caressing,
firewood crackling, wanting either tenderness, or dominion.
you remain
invisible—popping up at points, while your power is accessible in others. maybe
it’s organic flame, something thrumming your wings, strumming your guitar.
maybe it’s attraction, cadence, some knowing in souls made advanced. in a
sense, the sun follows you.
