Guitars and whistling, mirrors and
sights, one soul in many souls.
More are floating, rebutting winds,
sensing a slight chasm.
I would fret over a scar, abused by
perception, in everything there can be nothingness.
The song is sacrificed, symbols are
dancing, eagles are on high.
More tulips. One kiss. We have
mercurial aches and passions.
More dreams. Time to see, and there
is time to ponder.
Reality speaks about sullenness. It
is often conversational about love.
The woman on the violin is amazing,
and well together.
Life is now postmodern—a reason to
mourn and celebrate.
The soul, her spirit, are flames.
Some things are created by brains,
and some things are beyond brainpower.
I used to think as a child. I now
think like an adolescent.
The moon is watching. The sun is
gray. The stars are speaking plainly.
—at purposed hearts, leaping for
stagnated, wishing to gallop afar; the steep imagery, the imaginary serenity, it
couldn’t be real.
The strictest wars are inside of
perception. It amazes me the cup is both half full and half empty.
Choir is mental. Chants are
likewise. Each awaken inside.
By piano to strike immortality. By
cello to enter the heart.
Ashes and aches. Frustration with
purpose. Forces and gems.
Walls are high. Conversational walls.
Facing closure.
