oh dearest Fire, coming and
running, so separate—as a part of me. the soil is rich, harvest is heavy,
upheaval follows. why have days been gray?
adoring has become a project. it
seems likewise. the tides are red.
much a topaz mineral, a crystalized
personality, why have days been gray?
so much inside of us, as humans,
decisions seem insufferable; happiness as being, content with cycles,
where we must watch sunrise.
mind geographics—mystic geometrics—or
spirit architecture; choices for the future, noetic pyramids, most accustomed
to silence.
while watching—it amazed me, how a
lie feels ontic.
far from me to complain, while it
grows, its base tainted, unfed.
a woman in white and pink—there’s
much to it—I watched, fretting my mathematics; carrying a red elephant, storing
a blue whale, minding a shark bite.
there are equal thoughts to books,
or more books than thoughts, seeing as most books/thoughts overlap. if to
memorize books, carried over centuries, each detail filled with animation—this has
been our legacy.
oh dearest Fire, coming and
running, so separate—as a part of me. the soil is rich, harvest is heavy,
upheaval follows. why have days been gray?
easygoing turquoise spirit—made a
new soul—if one dares to say souls are created—as opposed to here, as life is
an extension of souls.
most have addressed an adult with
words denoting innocence, or youth—as so young it hinders growth; to sense it
hurts as much to hear it as it does to suggest it.
are there new spirits?
time is blurry—a mirage, a cosmic
phantasm—with shrubberies, marionettes, ever metaphysic time.
