memories came back. I can see the
seas. there’s a ship pulling in. sadness is embedded. happiness is a thought,
aside a mystery, wrapped in a perception.
most are monitoring self, wondering
about the next vaccine, experiencing the beauty of existence—asking if this is
the end. I stay aloof from that notion. I see it, at random, but I give it room
to trek away.
I know an author. I don’t know the
person. we’ve met, this is little in way of knowing the writer. the work is
excellent.
they say, the multitude of words
and terms, amplifies the intensity of the anguish and concern. I am not
certain.
ironically, I am growing weary on
the human condition—to experience it, to study it, is then, to undergo the
pictureless state. many want nothing to do with it. they don’t speak about it.
if effected, they have an idea of where it is coming from—aside for something
indicative of the human chase.
thunder is rushing, like a locomotive,
the islands are merging. many will worship at the church, many more will
worship at home, and many more will worship without interruption.
a dahlia is in its stages. a
mystery is shifting realities.
the weather is foggy. the liturgy
is indistinct,
verified. the vortex is open, the
gates are with
fierceness, the action is whelming.
a deeper
conviction. an opus upon rain, a
tenderness, an
insistence, somewhere in space, maybe
disapproving—of mental site, uneasy
software,
framed in perspective, precise, and
focused.
tales can be told. fables will
ensue. the magnitude is alarming. souls are swarming the mountains. the caves
are excavated. many are sitting in independence—cleaving to a turquoise star,
framed in perception.
one shines in blossom, another
through osmosis, the trial and tragedy takes on purpose and meaning. another
level, a spirit pleat, a curtain, a veil, an instrument.
I used to wonder what the elders meant. they’d assert
that at times silence is the only response.
