Perception Often Lies

 

Oh for darker essence, interior pets and animals, charms and winds; so deliberate the walk, glancing on a rare mountain, climbing and seafaring; the way it began, pride aside excellence, paradox and sin. The way it endues, the wilderness minx, a soul is pained and pleasured; indebted to anguish, an existential cymbal, by symphony to have adored those cries; most stressed to have been, most troubled to be, with devastation approaching what becomes: arts dying, paints with little reason, souls asking for clarity—math of movement, seclusion so near, losing social skills, a place in time—where everything feels out of space. So imbued by thoughts, filled with mystic lure, advanced at loving from afar—by ache in flesh, to see in determination, one dying to exist, to live; presumed as supposition, debating mirrors, most deceived by innocence.

Different Identities

 

In due light the graces of charms, to delight, dance, dine and enchant—by river boat, yacht and dream, evermore chasing doves and butterflies; so shallow his ethos in dire structure, so neat her ethos in packaged formula; both would desire finer breezes, detached from essence, chiseled by status, arts, and the anti-individual.

 

They might glance in direction, dispel an inclination, and rethink circumstance.

 

Curiosity is human; to sing inside, to paint petals, most warmed by projection.

           

They will ignore each other—filled with flirtation—baffled by rhythm and renaissance. So much to be, so great a coquet, so neat the credibility. Finally, sin would be adverted, rosy eyes would stray, not of culture, not of acrobatics; a man to his status, a woman in likewise, most charmed to have identity.

Opposite The Healing: It’s Different for Gallicas

 

I try to avoid systematic indoctrination—it’s impossible—with wings the mind does not ignore patterns. So simplistic an assault. So crazy an analogy. Would you love me otherwise?

It went deep. It cut issues. It became the transference it began at; moon stolen dice—affected arts in pain—another has discovered pieces of profanity.

I haven’t eaten—not of foods, more of energies—I hope to lose weight soon.

Sane afflatus. No one listens. The people are asking about love — “Teach us love.” So grand a writer—he stood in trenches, much a requiem for Gibran.

I have adored life, waned on life, rebuilt, assaulted, trying to wing on life; it kills in pieces, the horns are evident, one is seriously upset; the rest of us must get over our shit, not many are with that line of roses.

Many bags of make-sense, souls treading nonsense, if but to grate more sensibilities; so famous a guru, without mercy, administering tactic for tactic, angry a soul hasn’t lost remedies: a great mentor of spirits!  

Mythic In Some Way: Concrete

 

Must be harder for us—reaching beyond proclivities—acquiring forbidden traits; else, it, pain, evilness, each were there, breeding, formulating creed, expanding, thus, growing. A speculator is only so proficient—practicality is lacking some—while pure practicality isn’t completely feasible. Much research. Skilled at darts. Arranging pieces of a puzzle. I gather marbles, winepress berries, all to see waves—futures in honor, going beyond mere happenstance, debating worth, charity, art. I fathom disgust. Not receiving. Projecting traits. I do it often. Never as time is stillness, perspective, in spite of detriment, flourishing into deeper regions; learning in space, nothing appeases, made into ill-repute.

 

It was picked—a poem about depression, many mirrors in the citadel. What I shun—I become—what I embrace—is hard to master. Lights are on. A breeze carries a thought. I wait. It will come. It will be a conglomerate of feelings. Amazed by what capacities we possess; made powerful, made complete. I’ve been humble, discreet, observant. Practice was allotted use; it never gets easy; some are better equipped. Lemons flood gardens; bugs swarm; we cleanse each garden. Big luminous ideas. Quick provocation. Patience.

Along The Roadside

 

It's unfair of science to pursue as

she does, trying to refute facts and fiction.

It’s unlikely the havoc doesn’t carry

an effect.

 

Pledged as we are, one is so aware, another

is by faith, dreams, hopes, and feelings; fire

of angels, remiss to exclude darkness,

with so much done, and sullen, unsatisfied.

 

We must contend with self: how far does it

extend? must a person choke on his ghosts,

subsequently giving up one ghost?

 

Detachment is lethal.

 

Attachment is painful.

 

Many desire from others what can’t

be given: due to temperament,

experience, sentiments, design and

disaster, love, creed, and self-credence.

 

You’ve been trained for silence, but not emptiness.

 

Science is different for souls.

 

There’s chasing,

still; an inability to let go,

still; a ride is ahead of races, cattle,

herd and voice.

 

More of it is sought, as more familiar

one becomes with its mechanics.

The grandness of it. An only chase in

time. As needed for wickedness to adjust.

 

You’ve been trained for emptiness, but not

silence.

 

Strangeness pushing forward; passion in pain

one final calling; tapestry, curtains

bleeding, caricatures walking about

the carnival.

 

Each pleat is revelation.

 

In reality,

for you, one has never been worthy, and

chasing is exhilarating.

 

What would be final words?

—staring at eyes,

giving creed and punishment, hand trembling,

laughing inside, a full compromise,

surrounded by each demon along the

roadside.    

Endless Wicks

 

Panting near ponds, in some dream, never as unique as illusion; far into refreshing omens, aboding in hearts, by nature, into valleys. Numen properties, in Pain’s name, to wonder where science comes from; constant inquiry, loss and damages, trying to prove or disprove logic. An object made spatial. A critical self-review. By anxiety to make haste.

     I was at Sullen Estate, to cross paths—with rubies, diamonds, and science; made peak    

     of pride, dynasty of souls, short on humility. What gives more in excellence, presumed    

     in natural spirits?

Most sensitive art; years trying to catch religiosity; tugging at intangibility.

Many words have been drained—of essence and visibility—souls feeling invisible, existential, with courage to fight more days.

Managing thoughts. Surrendering wills. Searching fuller memories.

            I new miracle and soul, mind and mirrors, structure and dissatisfaction; alike to rhythms, beats, jazzy emotions, seeping into realities—made plural!  

Gusts of Sunshine

 

With song into clouds the rain mizzling upon gardens. You seem like more than I can define: lots of mystery, cogent illusions, so many sent to the forest. Like Indian mystics, born gurus, to find parts make pieces fit; small creatures in the galaxy, many make a voice, with armor surrounding certain cadence. To build on antiquity—to recreate the best of what we see—if to find something new.

Most entwining skies, like autumn winds, leaves soaring into lakes; more sentimentality—over purer moments, sore sensuality; rhythmic paradoxes, if to feel good, it must become hurting—so simple a thought, so complex an art, most imaginable.

Sincere emotion is too much to ignore; one feigns it, it’s under-compelling, another unveils, and time sits still.    

Is Objectivity Partially At Rest?

 

Each is by debate—scaling consciousness, analyzing improbability. So much to trust reality, as if knowing reality, as opposed to one grand illusion. Adoring souls—measured by credibility, heaving up time; much is by distaste, disaster, dysfunction—as products of humanity—learning as we yield more mistakes—the errors of adults, moved by emotion, the claim is pure analytics. By observation, deeper in a trance, to see energies in cosmic justice; the field unyielding, regardless of facts, in pains to understand raw circumstance, plus, participation—souls continue to undo. In finding one’s wits, furthering the emptiness, as loved by spirits—so balanced between impetus and mentalism, first cause and results, nor were others, objective in respects. When caring for a person, one desires the best in that person, otherwise, one desires nothing.  

At Some Point, It Never Mattered: War Would Just Be!

 

You would see in it—danger, when it appears; knowing in savior—price of locality—enduring until it might pass. Another smiles. You hurt her heart. Another mourns. So situated to live, if promised to leave, with pain seeming terrestrial; sure framed in agonies, or human fires, given one last chance to waltz and shy away, with pagan powers mixed with the root. A branch inside, leaves trimmed, confused about thought and recklessness; some hectic channel, forced to appreciate another person, wondering about silence, as it manifests. Some extreme level; calling back all-ness of excellence, hoping one never let’s go; by feral analogy, close to edges, mingling with a spirit—as it would sacrifice itself; exclusive rights, opening realities, to see how mysteries are formed. A spirit will blossom war, go through perfection from birth to galaxy; to see you smile, to feel romance, accused of going into darker spheres; sure cadence in you, certain defeat in us, to climb up and gallop with chimes and winds. 9-11, if to know depths, so much lost, so little to covet. You exhibit misery made beautiful. You tap into religiosity. You are challenge, gusts, pain, vengeance and solace of thought, pushing passed consequence.    

Relevant Ingredients

 

In you there lives sunshine and rain. You are deliberate. I see dahlias, zinnias, and granite illusions; my lungs knit meditation. By sky to travel—without jet nor airplane: never thought to remove you—from arc, science, your drumbeats, nor cello; most rotten beginning—we knitted seams—moving too quickly, taking humans for granted, as we do. I hear anxiety, not mere pains, deep anguish in life: by prayer of microphones, telescopes, and answering machines—to know you are jazz, blues, and guitar; celebrated in circles, bellflowers and petals, rhinestones meant for ornaments; fuming in skin, winds debating structures, throwing caution a reminder.

To nestle with animosity, to let it sing, have we not seduced self?

I was too even for you. Things seemed in order, during disorder, to wonder why you would contend with order.

I accused. You disagreed. Sunshine was confronted, happiness must be more than core person, to deliver one to miseries, old ancestors, anguish seated in genealogy. Evermore, silence ruminating, an overseer seeming mad, much discontent with one disdained. In truth, emphases on one’s past, life, nature, what has died in its blossoming?  

I Am Last to Say It

 

When light makes its round, one never hassles—over cosmos, and designs; with interior full, flushed, one wonders and wanders, aligned with understanding; assertion and dam, assortment of texture, treasure seeming inverted—a mind to its helium, things underscored, sayings becoming trite; to presume pressure as penalty, pleasurable at some point, to assert columns of visitation.

I was reading on spiritualism, yogism, esoteria and such: I wonder, naively, if those souls were haunted … they say far more than I ever have … I might say things differently.

When flies appear, one might swat them, another might leave them be;

When flippant inside, I ask forgiveness; at times, it keeps coming back: I sit until it unveils itself.

When music moves soul, eyes become intense, body picks up energy.

When it makes its round, I think of gods among us—I wander into communication.

Life is trying. Most would agree. Something alluring is inside—it flits in voltage, (I am the last to confess it), more importantly, it offers something unique, albeit, aloof and artistic, turning and churning atmosphere.

Dear Intrusion

 

No need to contend with you. You are art, trespass, and light. To have suffocated—each step, looking down insanity; like livid at first glance, like awakening and alert, like giving you what kills society; a bad adventure, another selected the symphony, to realize sound is often unsound. Hiding my life, instead of buying a new computer, art is too short, and life is too intense. Shall I dance, or lose life, or sing a capella? Miles into psychiatry—to hate a soul, for he sees, too darn examined—fleeing into fields, galloping and in distress. Much is serious, when three are wide awake, when one forecasts your next move. (If a man trespasses, and is punished, should he feel guilty forever, Is it healthy?) Indeed, a clear conscience will feel pained, deep anguish, despite, repercussions. Much a conflict. Much a debate. Where art is suffering. No need to contend with you. I will purchase a new computer. Not before it is exhausted. The anguish of the act, the penalty of the rose, it builds into character—while most are searching for suffering. In essence, much is what it has become, with most saying, “It isn’t enough.”  

The Color of Partly Broken

 

Part divided, eating medicine, part unsavory. Many will say, most are polarized, many are fighting ghosts. It must feel good to feel normal. Not a shame game—more a celebration. The torch is held higher. The broken leaf is left alone; it soon shall perish; we relish in good arts. To feel lucid—better—to be received as lucid: this is earned.

When a person lies something happens on both sides—the inner and the outer. When captured repeatedly, dialogue becomes suspicious. The reader knows that; nothing extra has been given.

The sun is the phoenix. The maze is home. It requires character—to remain upright.    

“No one needs to hear that!”    

At minimum—we exist in two worlds—one is undercurrents, the other is overt.     “No one needs to hear that either”—except for Little Jimmy and his sister, Rochel.    

In cultures, spirituality/religiosity is a given. The mechanics are intuited; some are sent through orientation; others are left chasing—or a little of all the above. Nevertheless, we speak to parts broken, known as such, by the disposition of the vague people.

Some impolite shadow is swarming through lands: part right, part unkempt. To live in spaces, evolving in spaces, compelled to examine spaces.

The curtain removed; so many elements; the people are with motives.    

It tends to hurt, seeing as it happens, deaths caused by broken parts.    What is the eschatology of the parts broken? This is a question no one needs to hear, nor ask, nor answer?

“We know these things. We don’t need to examine them. It’s pointless.”     Part divided, eating medicine, part savory; the ghost of her eyes—the pleasure in her voice—the tension between media and observation—moreover, the tension between perception and the rules.    

Trust is initial, until shattered, or earned, until sewn. With a partly broken soul, are we asserting trust, excluding immediate family, while it’s gray?     A partly broken soul chases dreams, becomes a success, different eyes, old spirits, the cells have been removed, the perception is renewed.     We must survive. If uneasy, answer it inside. If comfortable, know why.

“No one needed to hear that.”

Oddly Enough

 

To appreciate joy in another, I must have joy in myself. If I lack joy, I am unable to appreciate joy in others. A fiat, of course.

I believed in her capacity—to move swiftly, so evolved—I never thought about it twice: “She gives as she has received.”

He was a man of excellence, seemingly humble, I never gave it a second guess.

            He read cutting edge books, gambled to gain excitement, a soul for making things click: I never guessed otherwise.

            She was gifted, like shamans, and hurting for breath.

If I am happy, I enjoy your happiness, if not, your happiness—reminds me of my dearth of happiness. A fiat, of course.

            Philosophy of any nature—is alike to beliefs of any nature, a person gives them life. The person negotiates with the philosophy—and magic occurs.

            There’s a rare creature, we sense it, he is sad, and happy for the joys in others.

Another fiat, of course.

Upon a Spell

 

Most pass over time, sullen and worse—the sun isn’t marvelous; nature is cold, aloof, hesitant; too long in reserve, too uncouth to swim, life should be beautiful: armor and weapon, charm and illusion, trying to feel certain securities; by candlelight and chandelier, wines trickling, breads crisp and warm; some slave to it all, bundles of personality, a miracle to have lived.

Most exist with fervor, zest, radiant enthusiasm.

Some are in a little, and out a little.

One sings a tune, surprised others are listening, so easy to tell a mood-story; delicate sunrise, watching as time evaporates, to mimic it, never to regain it.

Those outrageous climaxes; some call it love; nothing veers left nor right. Upon fluffy feelings, what secures existence, to speak universal languages.

Reflexive Mirror

 

At sunrise, many illusions, from coast

to ocean; semi-distorted language,

uncreated vice, Love is in detox.

To disagree with eternity. To have

sway inside. To know lies have been

formed. I see repetition of sulfuric rain—by lace in adventure—curious, cursed, with access to religion. Assorted candies. Re-spelled intrusion. Deaths. Spasms. Humiliation. Only to rebuild. To sing song. So much

on line, on dance. It’s hard to confront

you.

You push away. Life is hard enough—sobriety is sullen, low, unrelenting.     I was with desire to save some person; in art, she was livid, under spell, we have little to wrestle over,

with intention to create hymns and liturgies; a problem to perception, a delight in silence, entitled, gray, afforded many mistakes.

Like taste-buds, acquiring predilections,

softer acidities: one long river, not courage,

hoping for numbness, or naivety.   

Be Careful To Cherish Art

 

I recall your beauty, your voice, made mellifluous. I heard they seek iambic, not straight liquid, plurality of attentions. Today is off. Pain is camouflaged. With memories seeming like indemnity. To haunt a person. You sound outstanding. I was desire to see Angelica. When deaths seep in, courage is waning, you bring a soul to advantages. I speak to air. No one is listening. By despair of the last Existentialist. I was heavy in desire at a soul—its body, filled with lazy parts, anxiety arts, probed to confess in deaths. How have arts ruled? What makes a man? I was with fancy and angst in tending to a soul, a man is his last performance. Another watches, discerns magic, lurking inside a mind semi-discouraged; by angst of petals, by poison in sin, athirst with color and rainbows. An old name appeared, self-same person, questioned sexuality, with pain displaying a root in game; many rabid souls, innocence in escapes, feelings in miseries; a feud in me, a legacy in her, made to play pretend like demons; and over yonder, a man touched my diamond, it was her essence, her withdraw, her need for one killing earth to get near; in truth, rain, and sunshine, each should be alert, for time is leery, art is sinning, and Love needs pain.    

When Art Is Publishable

 

Another rejection. Lights are low. The last one liked my work. It’s featured. It’s official. Life is madness, surreal, not here, over there. I read a person’s work. I see why it was published. It reaches. It has depth. It’s concrete, elusive, right in the face. Much to writing. A little harder for some of us. I remember the first time it read in my favor.

 

I’m linear, meandering, close in topic. I can’t get upset. I feel it creeping in. I’ve tried four times with this publisher. It feels personal. It isn’t. At moments, at seconds, its objective, subjective, I ramble on. By blueness, from toe to forehead, nonchalant, enlove with emotion, scared of feelings, a given nerd at points, with desires.

 

Be true to art. Asphalt passion, lucidity distrust, like it matters to feelings, like mind listens to mental letters. I see why they published him. I see why they love her art, scholarship. Anxiety is thetic. Auras are dissertations. Finding examples are impossible, probable, requiring effort, concentration, disaster of a perfect sentence.

 

I don’t know how—if they are real—skies seem perceptual; as far as I can see, as eyes feel reality, space, improbability, to reach, to want, to need, desire, to try, to receive.     

Three Muses, Three Spirits

 

In watching I might see a small stature, a larger wit, a frightening disposition. It might be an option, in claiming its land, it has never been an option. I’m glad you didn’t do it. In seeing many, we miss the one, kneeling afore a cedarchest, reading love letters. You were correct. Drawers hold history. Palms touch pieces of confetti. Inside much takes place, worlds upon miniatures, upon facts distorted for comfort. I was in awe. It read like chiseled to roundness. The lexicon stood out and challenged the reader. I can’t say if goodness is art, or art is goodness, much has been rethreaded: seams, minds, we crochet as we inhale, days are for magicians. I keep seeing you. Thoughts have patterns, filled with electrodes. So filled, so mighty, such beautiful emptiness; as introverts, fraught by life, finding solace in imagination. I met a spirit, steeped in interruption, it might be easy to love, if love wasn’t a byproduct of intrusion. To bully a person, while thinking on another, to trespass concentration, something marvelous—becomes a whisper—maintained in rooms, escape is impossible, life is richer, it’s pure conundrum. I will muse upon you, separated from time, giving luxury to spirit, science, and literature.      

Swimming The Dark Shadow

 

It's unreal, precise, proximity isn’t of significance—in addressing you, in loving parts of us, in disgust and treasure. Contrary feelings. Remote islands. Private undergoing(s). Sure heaving hearts; much history with so many; the soul gets angry.     Most will pay the ante, fall into terrors, and remain enchanted; mindful of parameters, dynamics in motion, softer music and laid out photo albums.     To soar swiftly, as creatures of evolution, or spirits of creationism—so certain in time, more to gain, with resources made for living; arms tight, chin to chest, no one quite understands.     With Love most radiant, most dim, befuddling the hands of time; an hourglass flourishing, a tiny zest for manipulation, so careful as to find joy in this life; much in redundance, newness in responses, more alert those days. In coming to remorse, it might be a hassle, with multiple feelings made oceanic.   

She Will Use You Against Me: A Silent Joy In You

 

Opinions, for humans, vacillate, they show curses, they grow with indecision; a mind must be stubborn, to hold to indifference, one displaying multiple characteristics. It becomes difficult to ascertain differences, to love a person regardless, with humans seeming one-sighted; a fire in its order, a flame with its spark, a person with indiscretions; so far into wilderness, leaf blowers, filters meaning little, to have life in redundancy—some existential plight, with persons changing rapidly, to hold to an event ten years in passing; while never kegging, unless, Above, one petitions science—in essence, what hurts him most.     (On another topic.)     It becomes apparent at moments, reaching her heart, to have decency in pretend; the fear is necessary, in order to function, with another, the fear is an adversary; to have died in me, with so many at the elixir, fueled for flame and frightened to resume life; a famed genius, an inner failure, a product of chasing and dining, if but to sing in an auditorium. So much rain, the reign of winter, with autumn so auburn, the tides are rushing inland. Deciduous love. Incomplete thoughts. Much making sense to the stakeholders. A film in Russian. An interior in Dutch. A revelation in Jewish arcs. To roam Africa, with pain in treatise, so much needing in the persons we refuse. To know in part, an art for understanding, to hate at nectar, the flame of the essence; Yahweh as a negotiation, needed as a solution, where thoughts challenge answers; as taught to assert, with radical doubt, most of responses are, at root, pantomime. Experience is a ventriloquist—an echo, filled with matter-of-fact audacity. In fair weather, she appears, caressing invisibility—a soul is desire for unreasonable forest. Anything beautiful suffers. Anything in-between guesses. Anything bitter, for a lonely spirit, is found with pleasure, and excuses.            

Reasonable Inquiry

 

(Darkness is inside. Shadows of personality. Essence is revealed.)     I was hunger, inarticulate, nesting at ignorance. Never knew how minds worked, sailing as they do, collecting reflections. To feel normal—is a blessing, a present, until it vanishes. Much absurdity is a deficit, little is unevenness, and none is like unawareness. There’s angst in redundancy—social paint—incomplete art; more sailing, frontier pioneering, to witness genius and excellence. I only know in parts, flow and flair, to make sense of behaviors. It isn’t complicated for scientists; it’s made difficult for the parameter—as we look in at activities. On occasion there’s anomaly—so daring it ruins perception, with patience, we unravel pure unevenness.     If one attaches its mind, dear essence in waves, to have become much a product of mystery; certainty meets uncertainty.    

By Depth of Shadow

 

Adoring imagination has been sin … to measure delight, unkempt by love, celebrating pain and chalice. Most creative of souls—to die to make it back—craved from soul to spirit. I have selected the unselected; have arranged to make song; too polite on some counts.     A soul admires beauty. It becomes much ado. Same soul is made to regret beauty. Beauty becomes therefore non-beauty, ugly, with oneness seeming impossible. If to capture emotion, to uplift sincerity, notwithstanding, agreement; the valley filled with foxes, temperaments, rabbits and wolves; eyes made of coyotes, souls pondering the Great Beauty, minds harboring mongooses; by more sin, deeper reality, many undoing the buildings. Becoming what hurts, loving regardless, core parts separated. The last to complete science, its race, with unconsciousness probing his discomforts.  

Unknit Union: People Kindle Ember

 

When time is unjust, a soul must abide by rules. Fields of monsters, limited access, many are losing decencies; like innocence given to sharks, to have been so great, estranged from core values; sour bias, tendentious pains, rhythm, art, and trauma. One smiles. So far left, right just isn’t happening. A smirk. A smile. Most thrilled, teased afore mirrors, to have damaged innocence, if it were there.     Most angered. Chasing takes on properties. “We hate resilience.”     So much in advance. Fear takes on its meaning. One is desperate to administer fear; to bring on inner war.     In life, we meet ourselves—the good, the worst; like neat knitting, seams sealed silently, seamy excellence.     Do we adore innocence—Does it remind one of what he has lost?     Topaz eyes. Violet eyelashes. Turquoise declaration. To adore pieces as adrift upon a petal—the fire is the war—assailed on the inside; anything bringing joy, has become a terror to perceive.     In excellence, some vile sky, with negotiation taking place to maintain the course; as a soul looks, it was far too easy, determined to endure, mountains black with charcoal.   

If I’ve Said Nothing

 

By measure and cross to have mercy with devastation; by sin with wine to love like dragons, one person in his lifetime. Banished to association, so bright the bandit in pain, with Love agreeing to give one pardon. I muck it up. I damage the professor. I repent for memories are sickening. By a demon’s song, the devil’s cry, by a ritual—I’d never collaborate; so sudden to have debate; so southern to have hospitality; in ground hogs to find filth, in pigs to see deaths, in matrimony to find divorce; old casual mate, more to me than life, in eyes elsewhere, the treatment is sorrowful; to need to feel like dirt, to kill what provides deaths, to sit in a room—rocking and swaying in rain. Most can’t imagine hell. Others are living hell. Some are playing a terrific flute: Mysterium and violin; cello and clarinet; the pain we give back when too damaged to breathe.      

For The Well-Beloved

 

New challenges—they come by human endeavor—the chase, much retrospection, a zipper on cosmos, unzipped, rain pours like numen ice. I would dance differently—we tell ourselves; I would make proud the well-beloved, I would put self aside; indeed, I would love until it hurt to breathe.

On another note—I would see better parts of self; I would become excellence, all for the well-beloved: I would take a chance on perfection: I would never fail the well-beloved.

            Can’t foretell challenge and spell;

            Can’t retake the final debate.

Too many spurts between kingdoms: Too long thinking about improbability.

            I would claim anything for you—some sick poodle—ashamed of my actions.

            I would lie in excellence, promising to get it right, and failing you.

Humans face a greater problem—it stands in mirrors: complete honesty will destroy us.

            I hear it in the leaves, the rustling of days, to hate and love one person.      

Behavior Seems Established

 

I picture you in purple, most royal garbs, most difficult to maintain. The human is a problem, a difficult maze, some behaviors are hard to distinguish, and we have needs. Through time the soul is interesting, as it flowers, as it is deceived—the response, the illness, cravings, and scars. Most vital humans. More creative, decent, at points, rational humans. So great an empirical chase; sweet soundness & taxonomy; more to study—is more to accredit. I picture you as antiquity, the importance of decency, as it seems, times have become anti-anything, especially, constraints on behaviors. Humans need freedoms—of choice, value, philosophy, design. Most courageous of all—an interior negotiator, with seasons seeming so flirtatious; many breathing in fumes, radiant sunrise, behaviors & the like: honey with milk, paper with ink, famine with misery.    

Stealth & Culmination: If Winds Listen

 

I love my cousin. And this is going to be revealing for him—time and change, love and wires, death and beauty.

We’ve come to adore a woman, sharing her arms, charmed to have died, amazed to have lived.

I remember him as a lad, we’d chase schemes, it was terrible when she appeared. Why was she there, a truer riddle, something culminating, something gray?

He could never tell a dream, or sell a vampire, eating lobster, sipping wine.

So beige. They all knew. The deaths in me sustained us for a time. Running as we do. Automatic pilot as we do. The fierce the violent, the humble and meek.     He was a pillar of visions, the root of admiration, the pain we ingest.

Convo was live, alert, cautious, striking.

To die with penalty. To have come to a space. (So delicate, precarious, something with time to solidify it.)

I love my cousin. And this is going to be revealing for him—time and change, love and wires, death and beauty.

Even looking at her, while manic, I wondered where he was: the game, the tires rolling, the slight imperfection, and why? – why me?

Nothing gave way. Days are filled with this tale, never his deeds.

Palming Crops & Soil

 Most seem vague and abstract. It’s appealing.

            We must as aware, the time was mutual

            paved and unpaved, serene and hostile

pictured as souls

deserts we chase

tides we catch, life by no other behavior.

 

By haunt—if unknown.

By hunting—if designated.

 

I was perplexed. Nothing seemed tangible. It

            was a challenge; it intensified.

 

Amazing how we know, and we don’t let go.  

 

            A man will make problems for himself

            relating the issue to the sunrise, never

            to himself.     I know better.

 

            At a point in history (yogi meant mystic

and mystic meant yogi) I experience both are

similar, both expose a given soul.

 

            Out of pain—comes hearts, they weep

            they speak through eyes—much darkness

            bright beauty—more balanced then

observation.

 

Saying it to stars—plight and variance, tales for

moonshine     ways we hurt in silence.

 

            I figure the ink was similar, ink meaning

            misery;

some are right, others are reaching. 

Interior Addressing The Muse

 

To bury the burnished flame—weaving the high tides—creeping into crescendo; asserting opposites, looking to swim, the best part of our days. I was a child musing symbols, born with glasses, elevating levels; the fierce flicker of her aura—the depression of light, the fire of the actuality; to make maintenance in pressures, to love in measures, if to swear against sentimentality. Some flavor haunting its exclamation; some need to exhale; each declaration coming back to challenge its voice.

An Oreo with milk; or Salome with wines; to have adored simplicity with majesty. Dialogue, serene mysticism, the heart as a place of wreckage, and repair.

Like twins fretting the glory—changed in absence, discussing the future—to have loved her art, to become romance, cleaving to science and prose;

if to sense the fever, as it erupts softly, sure passion, certain magnitude.      

  

Dialogue & Cycle

 

Through tears and weeping to cleanse the heart … for

gain, for kingdom … for relief. Different

stages of entrance … some for selfish treason …

others for genuine contrition. To

have died prematurely – to have grown into

sacrifices – with death becoming life

and so forth. Soft and lavender eyes … running

at life … showing tremendous mercy. Received

into senses, as sensuous souls, gathering

figs, building monuments; as creatures of

surrendering, souls of war, looking into

Awesomeness. Tears and weeping … pleading for

relief, gaining in parts, with ebb and flow

made outstanding.     With life, most assert an

understanding, as souls of fortune, it

seems right; Desire feels like legacy … a

heart loving life—is a heart suffering

life; one living without love—is aberrant  

as if deceased: tears well up, they show

purging, they weep on the remains.     

On Intuition

 

 

I was estranged in respects. The saga was heavy. At core, most people are experiencing disconnection, with parts rooted in humanity. Some are living to soar, to violin, to say song—the fierce blueness, ocean greens, seduced by intuition—the frame of the whales, the veins of sharks, the resilience of penguins. Many are trying to live.

 

Intuition is a vehicle, a gap between knowledge and foresight, a ruby, part unverifiable, made dependent on actuality. The reality is the revealing, when a hunch proves viable.

 

Some of us have come to assert a given fact, intuition, with its gray components, is essential to living life: intensity, wavelength, internality.

 

A silent trail, paved by doubts, many aren’t claiming human traits; romantic pangs, strength to persevere, excellence proving immortal—by touch and dance, the gait of the isolation, the music in daffodils, some purity in disclosing vulnerability.

 

I was born to a home; deep sensationalism, exploited emotions; intuition between family members is strong, powerful, meaning more than facts. Intuition is unbreakable, made intimate, proving little, in proving much.

Process Becomes a Relationship

 

Praising is a channel, as nearby, as closer than proposed. First knowledge and knocking, then love and conviction. To heal spirits, souls, to triumph, to fail—to placate. Adoring in faith—by calls near wells, by luster, lava, and surrendering; if to soar, eyes radiant with health, aside a spirit unzipped, made bear for the world to examine. Multiple levels: if she were to say it, they’d chastise her also; a man is left with suspicion, second guessing, until it reveals itself (no one hast to know).     Looking at shoulders—so alive in an instance, makes a person praise the talent—the gods in another person. In appearing one is invisible, and watching for closure—it never arrives. The fever is Our Father; the compassion in Our Mother; the magnitude of the expectant—to still move forward, as history has determined us to; moreover, candy canes, trees and such, more invisibility, seated in sight, removed from the audience—sure geometry, to wrestle over symbols, and wonder, why is it suddenly important?     Neither good nor bad—as determined in styles, it comes, nonetheless: praise of harmony; discontent with humility; pure presumption, jealousy, and concern; wherefore, many have joined what first oppressed them.