the
answer is to accept the inner silence—to feel unbaptized, doing according to
station, deeper into condition. no one escapes. it requires nonchalance.
the tides coming in droves. facts are fertile. beauty seems attitudinal.
jacinth skies give witness. such prosody in souls, natural poetry, sweeter
cadence. the answer is to accept the inner silence, to remain true to essence,
to be chipped at, to burn myrrh, palming hearthstone. i imagine a carpenter—one with ears to
hear with—a true fisherman; at bottomless seas, answering frustration, becoming
parts of humility. so much rhapsody—sublime
headaches, private and silent wrangling; to have danced at times, the memories
grow dim, what makes us human overcharges in fees. to burnish interactions, to decide on luxuries,
with one finding his life in literature.
no one favors the endurance, the indifference, nor the philosophic;
souls need embarrassment, anger over matters, and deep darkened chastity.
trying with anguish, against some moral, accused of missing the pinpoint. too many sights, too many customs, at
purpose to appease—dealt as unhealthy, remembering the first kiss, maybe more
detached, for it’s required—if to survive, such sinning dreams, to feel swept
into some other world—the philosophic dying, the nonchalance sacrificed.
