over days the soul has been aloft,
grounded, governed by some property, some soul, a diamond in a shaft of doves.
with blessings of the winds, or derision of the spirits, at penalty or
pleasure. most pious agenda, most impious understanding, made both in one
ingredient. so much an archaic art, the arc is in place, we fail to agree with
mystery, the arcane, the Plymouth orientation. hassled by status quo, aloof
enough to maintain esoteria, it becomes too common to ignore. at leisure, at
battle, at play, to have absorbed eternity, to will infinity, so afar we may
seem closer; much in reaping the harvest of souls, skyward and at the skyline,
to have existence, passing through a person’s life. to have meant so little, to
fret the muchness of the effect, born in essence, at love in its subtraction.
some chain of keys, or pins, as not to affront; some deeper persistence, some principal
reason, with all becoming distant—the flying luxury, the fleeing monster, as
becoming saddened by what was held as terrific. the height of the gorgeous
tragedy—the width of the excellence in invisibility, the tallness of the
travesty, so uncouth in intention, or so desperate to heal the fallen; the
thought of the madness, the fore-picture in past understanding, the grandiose
as an issue, and the present as a midpoint in debate; to fear the becoming, or
to aid the becoming, like pain is a watermark. many forest roses, they grow
alone, no one ever sees their terrific nature; the fragrance of the flowers,
the birds in the trees, the oaks and stars—the rosy and impersonal touch of something
contradicting itself; some paradox, maybe an oxymoron, maybe more than time can
knit.
