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.
