Saturday, September 25, 2021

Too True To Believe It

 

… the fever we feel, so lowly made on high, it’s hard to rest; like convergent spirits, a rare moment, a most appealing insight; running water, into a basin, I’ll wash your feet—only if you let me; I’ll cure your ills, I’ll unchain your leprosy, I’ll die for your salvation …. women with kids know this feeling. men with souls feel this sentiment. so far into knowing you, like inside of you, making a space for you. if to touch the hem, I’ll be healed, by your faith it has come to pass; by your belief to move a mountain—by your courage to have uprooted definition—by your heart to have come into my chambers. life is rough for the public. life is mental for the isolated. pain is universal for them both. I wonder what monks undergo, as underground creatures, living unveiled in caves. the flight of the soul, gunshot by ghosts, traumatized unto salvation. many know secrets—of how to unlock you—where a good person will monitor what she has released. shamans are ethnic. anything touching might be ethnic. history doesn’t unveil all the shamans, sages, while we read the Vedas. many gunas, many pains, much yelling to awaken you—more silence to touch, as a space in guts, a ladder one must climb: many gargoyles, many dark forces, as higher becomes addiction. nevertheless, sweet wines, many candles, it’s not repetition; it’s a state of mind, a place to gain entrance, a space made esoteric. I’ll tell a secret, I run a risk, each can do it—most will need supervision.  

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...