higher
in soul, upon a florescent dahlia, trailing after a snail. wondering if flowers
ache, if roses are eternal, if the switchboards are awry. debating morning
wine, asked specifically, listening to something over there. if to put reality
clear, she wasn’t redeemed until the weakness came, and she will always assert
her value, my insignificance, and search for an entrance. if to debilitate the
monster, if to humble the priest, if to cancel the inner flicker. found in an
instance, and carrying a torch, such a song in souls. the illusion for the
young, is disillusion for adults, trying to reattain that old innocence.
fantastic thoughts, of tropic birds, courage to fly, and eagles racing, moving
through time, invading spaces. old caiman hats, dinosaur DNA, seeming uneasy
and studied; fluting habits, a lute to intentions, floating inside of
memories. was told a story, about an
inner spirit, so much chasing through fields of lilacs. seeking specific
reality; negotiating the value and sin and hell associated with happiness; and
listening for kibitz of sophistry. more interested in nuns and essence and
monasteries—if to insist on goodness, with vileness chasing after our
imprints. hearing internality,
ciphering through opinions, each thought weakened by its oxymoron;
senselessness, unstudied agendas, a life given to something with pain.
