from deep down low
in her soul, she dismisses atheism, she has no regard for religion. an
individual, made in power, worshiping self, goddesses. choice is
pivotal. abandoned to wilderness. many days seized by anxiety—a small pocket,
seated within, she measures its source.
through thickets,
into deserts, situated in oblivion. most days are smooth, cadence inside, at
times, others interfere … many inferences, many motifs, splendor seems close,
accessible.
I wept as a
seedling. I lived a memoir. I palmed mystique roses.
certain words are
in her mouth, they convey meaning—they speak to discernment. she secludes. she’s
public. she trembles.
I was ensouled as
a child … they put fire in a chamber … we are visionaries.
she is a symbol, a
human, no one is looking further. how would she share herself, in such a
capacity, it’s too much authenticity?
much is criticism,
social anxiety, at times, pleasure in other souls. like euphony, symphony,
mental symmetry; to have song, to ache in beauty, to learn, it has meaning:
lights, skies, scars, screams.
she watched,
titillated, feeling atmosphere; she kept fiddling, maneuvering, took lessons,
became formidable.
I know nothing,
everything in part, is speculation, every religion, every soul, in part, is
cultic fire.
to enter, we chance
effacement; going deeper is a journey; each trip, takes a portion, gives a
glimpse.
