I sense reality, musing upon a soul, kneeling, fraught by mercies.
Rights and wrongs, glorious seductions, furious games. Ruined inside, guts with
wrath, walls flaming cold. The conversation was nesting, yielding, made young
and immortal. The life you give, certain infatuation, so free without sight,
nor rationality. Oh tamed Insanity, creature of torment, to have died in pash.
Like a fantast or phantom, filled with wealth, too familiar to be young. Such
mystic firewood—mystique firebrand, such hypnotic souls: prose and plays and
passion; sweet perfect distance, ruined but clear, the spark, the Kingdom.
Wilderness of the saints, restraints of the soothsayers, a soul wrapped in
sackcloth—tender charm, Prime movement, blues and jazz—a glimpse, a novel. The
ambient heart—the dark fortress—the miracle aglow; the oldest protégée—the
youngest fathom, so casual, so enchanted.
