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.
