Life
is the petal upon a rose the clever works the abandoned self-acknowledgement.
Onto islands on mind-back, the way we try new cuisines, or better, the way we
discern a kind gesture. News came: one instrumental in hurting essence, is
found losing essence. I let go—kneel inside—and learn to breathe.
The
virtue of an art, the value of self-significance, the variables working the
atmosphere; to have mercy, to grow in pain—for one standing against the
entrance; withstanding the onslaught of vituperation
walking
face in hands, trying to hear the vaultkeeper.
Some
elements we study, others we face, many people are trying to sing.
By
fever to feel, between spaces, upon higher seabirds: never that feeling twice,
if so, blessed be the complications; so many echoes, songs, we imagine life as
interchangeable;
eyes
intuiting, inner powers systematic, to weep where he wept.
Many
faces. Many masquerades. I imagine nervous honesty.
(There
is a misnomer at hand: Just because one knows how to respond doesn’t mean the
person is dis-ingenuine.)
The
maestro is conducting, cuing for symphony, a soul is a cathedral.
