Electricity is under-statured.
Searching for existence. Hearts beating rhythmically.
Drums are always clear.
The rune is an antiquitous language.
A dream for two. Charms.
Terrific feelings. Tedious
emotions. Chants by intonation.
A soul goes through a whirlwind,
deep inside, a few are privy; to watch skies falling, feathers growing, even in
mastery there is headache.
Perception isn’t enough. It works
with intuition.
The crisp is up for debate. The
reader wasn’t ready. He didn’t prepare.
Different hats. Suffering Taoists.
The literary map.
By the flute to wave off the
spirits. By the harp to engender peace in the soul. By desire to court desire.
A tear isn’t living until it
reaches soil.
Obstructions pose a challenge. The
want is for the promise that never dies, without compromise.
The fever is bestowed upon certain
souls.
We watch growth. We celebrate
growth. Something lingers in the recesses.
Pomegranates. Oranges. Pineapples.
Japanese paintings—long meditations,
short seconds to inhale.
The soul has trinkets, religious
content, feelings lashing at us.
Floral existence, a woman on cello,
the storms are made of energies.
Pasta and sauce, chunks of turkey
ground, onions and life.
Jalapenos. & Gut wars.
