the wilderness, the psyche, the
phenomenon; the pushing marsh, the watchful mayfly, the inner savannah; hence,
the love and guarantee, fighting against probability.
most grains are familiar. at times,
made foggy. different worlds on convergence.
the ability to tap in, the word freedom,
we do not say.
monopolizing as communal, aimless
as individualized iconoclasts.
so long at climbing, each step
becomes a triumph, tending to forget about what’s forgotten.
the wildness of asking
permission—to fly, soar, or be more of the stranger inside.
in editing an older feeling, it
became convincing inside, the last word doesn’t mean much.
of course, legacy is different. the
argument isn’t certified.
affected by artworks. moved by
poetry. and coveting prose—the novel of the soul, the love filled novella, the
revealing memoir, where the author revealed her anchor.
some figure us out. we might get
angry. the self is changing so rapidly.
simmering in existence, much a
tinge of presence, a taste of sadness, and an unearthing type of epiphany.
it’s both clear and unreachable,
this makes it immortal.
ironclad images, as if concrete,
much is forgotten—to awaken at moments—to cause breakage.
some pegs are shrouded. some arts
are voiceless. many are fighting against wilder roses.
too long a road, speaking on
necessity, different ranks experience higher elevation. to where there is
obsession, there is greater development.
many black sheep designed determination.
many more set an indenture in history.
it gets to a point where minds know
each other—the good and the indifferent.
the thought was absent to address
the feeling—the feeling tried to run amuck—until it was identified, classified,
and given a definition
