the many ghosts, aside shattered
eggs, associated with unbuttered esteem. most will examine genealogy—most will
stop at grandparents—in search of a blaming device; also, the night was cold,
ice formed on harvest crops, the distance comes closer with time.
i was looking at a picture of
Camus, asking about his state of mind, many would never question it. something
was unaligned, shadowy, sweet, tender darkness. so much a brilliant space,
unoccupied by defeat, defeated nonetheless.
I do shift inside, believing the
dreams inside, examined by souls inside; the great dread, the pulling to rescind,
the hour of resuscitation.
if to butter and toast esteem, if to
soar and fly, some pains must we undergo.
i have observed anguish, its
irrefutable space in us, looking at its form; to permeate countenance, a person
becomes mean, as such, because it hurts; another inverts the hurting, becoming
all-loving, harboring a darker whisper.
many flaming psyches—where we
appear, our minds are countryside valleys; so feared outside, the power of the
soul, the influence of genitalia—
our spirits needing the ‘thing,’ in
which, tales are told towards disgusts—and ever the chase is crucial.
the ramped soul, the moving soul,
the regretful soul; the cliff on high, looking down, the problem one might be,
or become, unannounced to him or herself;
the prison inside of walls, outside
of auras, so personal—we might protect them.
