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;
