the sickle is put to earth. tides
touch the skyline. seeds are planted for resurrection. we know not the extent
of the forest, nor the escape of the rain, weathered, and mis-channeled. the
odic spring—aside an unfastened ocean, kilometers of poverty, tons of
melancholy. we depend on chastity. we lived by superstitions. we keep a few
inside. barefaced and unsung; the churchbell has rang; many are waiting at the
portico—arguing over intangibility, disputing how metaphysics operate, debating
over maxims and properties. maybe,
just maybe, most are pirates on some level; mean skies, havoc on earth, fruits
for some, desperation for others, and ups-and-downs for the entire lot. fuchsia eyes dreams of future wiles, in
which, visions come to existence; so deathless the esoteric, the epistemology
is unsafe, the stoic will both live here, and die here. how to manumit the insides, the
perceptions, how to grant self-liberation?
so idyllic, wrestling over ideals, the choir transports the spirit. (one lives the perfect life, behaving,
winning, losing, he ends his days surrounded by family and friends—he has lived
a good life, fought the good fight, and he will let go missing some part of
self; an intimate piece, sitting at the fringes, looking to be tipped forward,
never nudged, just watching, just enduring.)
unshod feelings, harpooned emotions, filled and incomplete, like waiting
for a message in a bottle.
such seismic vibration; an untuned
circuit, rising intensely, guaranteeing the hunch. a basket of thoughts around
invisible matter, the tension simmering and increasing at times.
