I was unread myself. I reread
myself. I’m with error—the tale was told—a few are privy. It’s enough for
agony, souls roaming Jerusalem. Just worded differently. Family dining with
wilderness, eating popcorn, and drinking vanilla soda pop. So sensitive, so
exponential, so extraterrestrial; an intimate excursion, a need to fix, punish,
and restructure—so much driven, certain about procedure, a trillion in spirit. The
final gavel the inner reality, wondering what comes of dregs and slums,
ghettoes and urban life? (Brilliant minds have come forth.) Much said to
decorum. Much more said to countenance and assessment, with assertion on the
inner pages. Never thought to know you this way, the finale is the existence,
with souls comforted by illusion. I
was paying attention, it seems, we’ve slid into a web, can’t let die, can’t let
live—just constant wrinkles—to plant a thought, while whales are falling, and
elephants fill rooms; so obscure, so abstruse, the philosophy is what you would
assert. Different things for severed souls, while excellence is in perfection,
never a thought to behavior. A spirit here to watch, the inherited lesson, the
renaissance is mental, the séance is perfection—that lonely enterprise, those
wild regions, we might not know to let live.
I looked at another, the contour looked invisible, it yearned to move
across the board; converse was simplistic, convoluted, with depth, prayer,
ambition, and the fluent essence. One accused the spirit. It means much. It
means what it is asserting. With mirrors absent of our appraisal. The topic is
simplistic, the argument is profound, It can’t be reality! When it comes to it, self-portrait isn’t
enough, and universal assessment might be with error. Most are searching for legitimate
rubric, measurement.
