I could muse the
Ghost, in lighter years, spawned in essence and disbelief; to adore after
offending, to decipher after unreason, so cautious, but not enough. I’ve lost
physicality, not much to see, alert to deaths, in a cold sequence. When I met
her, I understood her, the bassline is insatiable. Much dogma in me, new tenets
in souls, thrown into the crowd; tossed a whit, at terrors a whit, listening to
a heart with discernment. Quite defeated on this one, still walking the trail,
looking as many have formed against the few; literature. It’s crazy how it set
off. Many were pleased. Many were concerned. It comes to a monopoly on
Religion; a small man, as destined to give up the ghost, like each as we swim
into sulfur. It was a ventriloquist, an inner concentration, a multiple until
it is corrected; the fierce of the flame, the Jewish—the Pagan, the inner
excellence into danger. So recluse those winters, so close in reclusion, it
never felt as real as the absent presence. A tear made cold, an oxymoron, while
it does its measure.
