the
timbre of the universe, tender energy, quiet accessibility. if willingness
means its depth, portraits made into irony, with dreams accursed and desperate
to speak. a lady will etch into a crescent moon, reaching a crescendo in winds,
satisfied she hast redressed perception.
I try
to go into some space, some mind location, built by radiation of thoughts, or
waves, or interests in something esoteric, mainly human, I do contradict many
elements.
many
tales will be told. many passions will fly into orbit. the fable will become a cliché—the
paradox will become expressive of truths.
so
great the deconstruction, as freethinkers, we’ve attacked and detached any and
everything. I wrestle a troubling question: Should contact be sacred?
it
seems we’ve a dark dilemma—on one hand, yes, on the other hand, no.
when
there is sacredness, there is a group of labels and demands, this creates pain
and alienation.
we
seem to be at a standstill, looking and debating, with convictions percolating.
many
violet arguments, or galloping horseback, or studying for the privilege of
being correct. swooshing and soaring aside, we have a good time analyzing.
it
was an invasion those years. the emphases on beauty—depleted the value of the
perceived beauty.
one
needs to hear it, but in private, under a controlled environment—inside a
castle, while remaining human enough to have excitement, fun, and to rough
house.
to
amplify deaths, is to seize deaths, where I neither endorse nor repudiate the
ongoing process—suspended between life and deaths.
so
murky so gray, causing issues and problems, so scientific, so complete, so
great its condition; eye-to-eye profanity and appreciation—tender leniency for
souls, demanding love on some points. christic sunshine, pictures of daylight,
mesmerized by essence falling under many identities. to greet a person by
saying, “Namaste!”
