it has become
winds or acres and plows, as deceitful leaves flutter and flit the flame is
uncertain. many know about this, some are oblivious, others demand silence.
many signs into
symbols, a soul comes to a cul-de-sac:
iron valves,
metallic water, freefalling into a trance—the gift of more fire, aluminum
crosses, diamond faiths.
loving was tender
as an adolescent while days seemed more susceptible; as inexorable spirits,
aside inexplicable rivers, soft and supple prayers; if made aggression, such a
secret, we ignite an earthquake.
many nightmares
ago, in a ghetto city, lived a naïve winner.
to move inside, or
to glow in contour, a soul looks differently—at essence, cascading terror, much
alienation—as solitary wilderness, a person has many rooms, as singularity
manifests plurality … the one the many—as collective captives, wondering to
whom goes credence.
it has become
winds or acres and plows, as deceitful leaves flutter and flit the flame is
uncertain. many know about this, some are oblivious, others demand silence.
dearest Forest, so
silent so noisy, as aloud to puncture consciousness—some type of innocence, a
soul to its name, fierce matrimony, humans as electricity.
made subtle. made
overt. made to infuse beyond the old person. voltage as therapy, right in your
quarters, it secures not to panic.
Spirit is in
souls. Souls are in spirits. Ferocious Passion drives the Zeitgeist.
if it was spoken,
it was delivered, it was received; if knocking, if at home, someone answers; if
asking, one debates, we often lean on boundaries.
maybe a dreamy
man, spacial over a fantast woman, while muffled or silenced or unable to shirk
his insides.
maybe delusional,
fighting illusions, or maybe quite clear.
the analysis is
unsteady, for self—evaluates self, depending on wisdom stirring from itself.
