Rummaging
interior—purposed to exist—most memorized inside. The haul is the wave;
excellence would prevail; the skies are tender.
In
memory to come to you. You exhaust impermanence. You are cadence.
Upon
a spark—into a canyon—hiking the vatic trail; so much a hawk, an eagle, a
falcon—fierce at the chase, vying for perfection, most dreams are empty.
Unbeknownst
to senses, a remarkable structure, chiseled ice, frozen fire—made emphatic by
senses—unable to locate the source.
It
was all for honor—for you—for the deep scar preventing excellence; those nights
upon a star, memory activated, soaring where we dwell;
patient
to endure interior, a love for something made common, something unkempt at
times:
by
lotic waters, aside river banks, eyes filled with dahlias—to possess no more
than the feeling.
