karma
has
done its number. it’s good to suppose, some will endure by a valley made of
deaths. unsung. made pliable. rejected as goats.
most
pleased to hold hands. it was promising. out of mud, into sunny skies, released
to a desert.
one
never knows hubris, how it generates cockiness, how arrogance dwells deeper
into its crevices. to see a person open, spirit veins, something floating into
intuition.
might
seclude in a countenance, as made of easygoingness, bones, graves, Ezekiel.
neither
beginning nor end, most significant, Melchizedek the mystery. or second, by
faith, as, is/was, the same person.
much
cosmic art. as going deeper might kill us: not as physical, not as spiritual,
one becomes something unrelatable, suspicious of what he loves, cagey over
spirits.
a
mirror is frightening, revealing, most often, silent. to gaze too long is eerie.
to avoid it is forgetful. while, nonetheless, planting a picture inside, of
self, is difficult, is dangerous.
sitting
at a portico, is a number of new believers, it will go sour, before it becomes
even.
most
are steadfast survivors, moving with winds, exposed to different elements. made
alluring. made suspect. made subject to investigation.
let Wisdom be gracious, consoling, while she vets inner souls, determining if love
is genuine.
