the magazine seemed busy. the
colors were talkative, endless, and a spark appeared. feeling my concentration,
we become a couple, like platonic friends. life kept moving. it closely
included me. it could have forgotten me. needing precision, the last trumpet sounding,
or fretting inactivity. some strong force, cascading into me, an ethereal
waterfall. something talking to me, asking questions, remaining silent—no rebuttals,
so iridescent, uncalm calmness; a chase through time, too many dying,
attempting to do as others; pure anger inside, too cloudy, nebulous, looking
for quickness—the green soul, in a black essence, feeling as if the white light—as
it might cleanse, an appetite for specialty, sunk into dusty ashes. changed in
a blink, called into the skies, body refurbished—to whom can receive it?
feeling, shining, a glow—and Love died for me, and Love lived in me, a split
second! a mind-frame is the mind-flame as we walk into catacombs; candles,
myrrh, herbs for embalming—oils, ashes, wax for sealing; evil eyes,
compassionate palms, mercy, left to a decent miracle; passion in welts, needing
physicality, clothed in dust and dirt. reborn as testimony, running out of
time, the failings are talkative.
