Disappearing from
reality; paws on brains; life is spent ignoring elements. Too sane to dispel
it; not insane enough to acknowledge it.
A soul is
tasteful—too much to deviate—too much integrity not to sin.
We might presume with
a little evidence, for it to be explained accordingly.
Sorting through lemon
grass, sawing knapweed, the country is the city becomes the marshlands.
Some souls speak the
language of romance, the culture is submerged in it, receptivity is a summer
home.
Advanced souls,
primitive tenets, some precepts are underrated, and outdated.
Many modalities in
one room. Brains in their nature. One might live companied by friends. If and
only if!
We overlook plaids.
We paint with colors. Everything has grayness.
The penchant is for
the waves, the pensive flare is for anxiety, the wistful is for the flame.
Made of cotton, or
steel, each seem interchangeable. Made of feelings, even absence, nonchalance
becomes an emotion.
The padlock, its key,
over an orchid.
So much is said on a
saxophone.
