Spurs
to dirt. Minds to living graves. The majesty of the essence—exposing new
elements. Listening to gestures. Missing large pieces. Those will when they
can. Realized in phantoms; humans face causation; similarities, a deeper arc,
reaching into sunrise shadows.
In a
shift, finding reason, a soul must tame inclination—the fire of the podium, the
priests at courtship, the bishop and Huldah.
Hearts
as songs. Singing as survival. Spices, balm, and potpourri. Moments. Many in a
vase, a symbol in a jar, flipping a coin.
You
seem filled. I’ll try to explain. You seem exposed—to life, pain, lose, and
winnings; the gamble, the inner spider, its webs, trying to outdo the
inevitable; already immortalized, soul on Neptune, ravished for ravishing, at
love with soul aches.
You
seem to have essence, philosophy, mental habits, spirit, soulprints.
Many dungeons for souls, for fuss,
climbing as making it to skies—the bass as booming, aloof enough to see, it
would take life and luxury and levels to attain your stature. Conscious fire. A
galloping heart. Flying and flitting with flamingos.
