silence has passed. the noise is in
instincts. the jitters from its absence. the buckler the star founder, the
valiant force. What have we become that they might present energies?
Was David aware?
Psalms show something distinct and
determined; and fully operational. How was it discovered and made practical?
the anxious philosophic. the
residing residue. the presiding unclarity. Aretha’s song. like fierceness in
winds, to come to my aid, the respect we give.
a soul is made of interests,
defeated at moments, rising back into its character—reminded of its fragility.
such waving accuracy. it was once my intention; it has become my cautionary
element.
most immortal winds, deserving of
radiance, to have come unbeknownst to the shepherd—made of blamable properties,
rebuked for impetuosity, stating in an instance—something confusing—knowing it
was not as stated; the deception of ink, the pulling of souls, the
embarrassment, for the apologetics, for the essence.
pure apogee in some souls. the apex
flickering. the necessity is in the redemption. the contradiction is—it never
goes to another region; it stays with us. I have changed cadence at times, the
word expected—doesn’t fall—the waters are redirected, the reservoir is fraught,
and overflowing with beauty.
I was in admiration. the
subconscious has been quite pushy. one noticed. another noticed. the highs were
met with uneasiness. a soul is too quiet, too vocal, or prepared in
observation.
I stood in line for laughter and
glee and drinks. the tavern was jammed packed. the motion bodies go into. the
abandon we share. in truth, I know not the name of the one that becomes the
generation. I might in passing—nothing emphatic.
a time comes to go to rest, to
prepare for a shift, I believe the time has come, has passed and will make a presentation
in the near future. something is tugging, pulling, pushing in a given
direction—no one quite knows the motives of others … we surmise, we suggest, we
never have clarity—until clarity is spoken.
I look at some blankly. it has come
to that. the sheer shock of the other’s audacity—the flailing uncertainty, even
when, one will see the confession—as room for opportunity. every word measured.
every word brought to the tribunal. every deed brought to its crucifixion.
never a thought of limitations. most often a thought of motion and provocation.
the worse thing in essence is, the wrong force knowing one’s resilience,
endurance levels. it’s a hobby for gila monsters, angels, and lioness.
there is a reality in souls—to see
something, at once resistant, nearly to vomit. some things are simple, others
complex, when beauty might turn a soul’s stomach. it might be understood as—the
seer determines what is reality, whom should possess it, and how it should be
revealed.
I said much in an assumption—one
never knows, even where discussion is fruitful, apparently open, free, without
pretentions.
some backwoods notion is
asserted—we might ask if trust is made possible and knowable: yes; we adore
those few miracles.
