into twilight, strangeness, as if a
soul will forfeit excellence. not a
perfect specimen, far too many mistakes, but a handsome soul, a goodness there,
a ruby made of tolerance, specialty, gentility, and pain.
the past of its future, by journey
of its life, looking into us—seeing miracles, the opus of the sin, the body of
the maze.
brushwork. the Burning Bush. so
much to believe in. jackals in
soul-kind, fermenting cables, the world can’t outwit everyone.
a pioneer of prose and poetry, many
dwelled in intolerance, the fight for literature.
we juxtapose life’s events. we find
manufactories. we saw it with the Panthers. we don’t see much with other
groups.
to interweave the facts, to unsee
the unsaid, with problems originating with the prey. a prayer for the lonely. in essence, it
shall shift. then spirit seems too grandiose. in a humble trumpet, a humbler
triumph, with strange lives crossing the pearly gates.
iconic value, perpendicular arts,
geometry lives with socialites. so
much is embellished. whom paints the story? Socrates is pivotal, the character
and the essence.
Pluto is a man of words. wondering
if persecution came, and it did!
an echo in heart. a deeper belief.
the oxymoronic and opalescent personality.
so latent. a person of interests.
washed in spirit, bathed in water, set to motion in time.
