long
live ripened souls: leaves swirling, acorns aside plants, little insects, indescribable,
making merry their ways.
much
ado about insecurities, alchemic scars, days in purple bars.
such
is perception, waves along shorelines, many are eating karma—
so
dear to uncertainty, if separated, pain might rupture.
coming
closer, truly afar, it means much to say, “It was done.”
vibes
across cities, epiphanic aches, intuitive survival; built in trenches, born
into havoc, stories begin to sound resonant—of souls, inside of properties,
under mudslides—such marsh in back-parts, marshweed in El Segundo, saltweed on
Wilshire.
in
letting life luminate, a soul sings sullenly, accursed or assumed, as
particular, indeterminate art.
in
meeting us, more understanding, in walking away, mirrors seem clearer.
