going in circles,
tugged like elastic, furious over awesomeness. a drumbeating penchant, aside a
nightsong, playing roulette with love. so curious, or nameless, trying for a
gourmet socialite.
purity is a
cappella, Baroque, it stands out as accused.
into a chorus,
next to a piccolo, in front of a portico—church advice, parish rules, a soul
lives as a hidden preacher; former eyes, can’t locate them, or unmoved
observance, can’t define it.
life is a concert,
people are dancing, souls are unchained—to center a duet, to feel tugged, it
meant much more to sober feelings.
a soul is a poem,
never complete, observed, mused upon, engaged; most search for flavor, nuance,
maybe an encore—moving between days, nights, evenings.
one motif, in each
life, love as an anchor.
many flowers,
around a building, centered in a desert, crows sit on scarecrows.
touching is
allowed, made terrific, more compelling at moments; or touching is repelled,
fraught, too much to sustain. touching breeds comfort, miracles, eternity.
going in circles,
those mirrors, those dances.
prose is nocturne,
seeping into clarity, effused into souls; we might mention love, as an entity,
compelling forward motion; as prelude, opus, drama in daisies—a feeling, so
moving, eternity comes to mind.
we might fret
detachment, trying to align our lives, feeling like a quintet, composed of five
parts; mourning condition, at times, pardoning our souls, at moments, so
attached, its unusual.
