The
reason is evident. The neglect comes by promise—of emptiness, blackness,
wilderness. All of my soul. All of my heart. To obey an insecurity. I moved a
device, dear to decimated, at a problem in perception. So much in the forests,
so much in the fields, so forever to walk away. By a birdsong, to have her so
conceited, so arrogant, like terrific terrors. All I have to offer. All I could
muster up and give. So much a disruption: most when I enter the region,
swooshing and swishing, like a distress signal. If for lowness, a terrible
treasure, to have sensed it gone astray—those tiles and tortures, those realms
and realities, contradictions, to sense it might become legendary; too much
towering, too much terrific, too much cultic calamity.
Some
type of absent presence, aberrant awesomeness, reborn like rationality; to see
it in a person, the roundabout excellence, as it grows, the remorse of the
headless horseman; feeling removed from essence, the church self, roaming a
lost, long, road of rebellion. Too far away made close, spirit swooping, a
person’s intentions become an energy—carried into regions, afield and
galloping.
