last
week was hot, dry—it rained soon—torrid humidity, perception, humility. so odd to
think of people, considering spiritual misidentification, with seeing the
masses grappling. soul gentrification at times, emotional melees, feelings
brushed incorrectly. if to gaze deeper, something is evident: I know one with
disdain for some, terror inside, but not corrupt.
I would remember too much. in fact, I
would excuse too much. it seems many depend on misidentification.
we might love some charm, before it
becomes abusive, I believe Sade would understand.
I cherish the day—roses blooming,
orchards filled with fruits; royal experiences, covered, camouflaged pride,
depth, as it speaks meaning.
things run their course, even good
times, looking at a corner of the atmosphere: cobwebs, garter snakes, hawks in
skies.
observing climate—watching crows—insides
suggest someone is concentrating.
it
was a wish to expose what operates inside.
I have been naïve. I have forgotten a key fact—not for sympathy,
empathy, nothing like that—but I see things differently, have different
experiences, due to an illness, therefore, I can’t presume on humanness, others
are having like experiences, while, nonetheless, some of those experiences,
must be similar. prime example, each has suffering, nothing clairvoyant to
that, but not each are consumed by chasing its understanding, most just have
good versus bad days. we, nevertheless, have parallels—opus passions,
songbirds, splendor, endurance.
