the mountain at the end,
after trekking spikes, before eating wild berries. the local hospital, much is
mis-defined, many sit in rooms—with courage to survive, most are now soaring,
withering weather, unfastened, in a particular space. more interruptions, more
aggravations, open to the telepathic. such spirit renaissance, souls searching
for familiarity, it strikes when two just sync. Jung called such synchronicity—some
element at work, just to imagine brains given to sensitivities. the mountain at
the end, those cascading waterfalls, many virgins bathe there; bringing it
home, many have become weathered, most adored persons, with much to protect. to leave that behind, climbing
imagination, harmonizing with impossibility.
some things will never happen. some will experience the best of the few.
many will remain enamored with the beloved.
a woman will become a warrior, a mantis, a superhero; flying, after
flitting, made to heal, chance, filled with loyalty, filled with baptism. many
will inherit art—The Guggenheim—The Metropolitan; more will inherit ambiguity,
an interior chameleon, a few phobias. years fall into a blur, memories become
monuments, a person might live there—a bathhouse of pressures, mis-defined
moments, deserts at times, countryside, shrubberies aside myrtle trees. so much
more to believe in, feelings request new information, pupils never tire of
receiving data. the temple is human, the human is a spirit, the spirit is
linked to souls. the mountain is at the end.
