By graces and deduction. By life and illusion. To
become what wills itself.
The unsteady media, disclosed to souls, to need
imbalance. The function of stars, one
to know, while it becomes essence and ruse.
Presumed as ethnic, truly lacking color, happening as it appears; the
battle of roses, the fury of skies, with neglect seeming evident. One move in many. One love as sacred. Much
in presumption. Similarities. Gates.
Feathers and tar.
It becomes broader than time, elastic as the witness,
apparent as crucible and sacrifice. The feeling one gets—to be on the in, with
illusion separating our souls, and clarity coming from the witness.
To sing as sung the light of the seas—to know with
sequence, the touch of insanity, to wish that for a man.
