The sluggishness comes upon me, heavy in the anchor of
blood, a mind filled with goblins. A productive day is a measured whisper,
clutching to
courage to survive. (One makes reference to you,
spitefully, knowledge says she wants something of you.) I have palmed corn,
gathered eggs, there’s a coyote in the distance. I
have fed wolves, stacked the color of maize, and boiled cups of rice. On a longer journey,
awakening to a maze, many pictures of self are
strangers of self; the many bottles spinning, arriving at a portal, many tears
inside craniums; a soul to
self, chemically uneven, to debate how old such
genetics are; gazing into mirrors, amassing understanding, trying to sense the
different feelings. I have left the building, headed into
traffic, the highways are filled with loops, turns, thoughts, messages. I rethought
the confetti, as miracles, to feel as arcs combine in
cities; many percentages, leafy literature, destined for an existential career. Upon a
daze, into a faux pas, unstable those moments. I asked
redemption, only time was witness, to have sung many phenomena. Sold inside.
Given over
to mysteries—most committees are dressed up in white,
darkened by fuchsia clouds, facing ad hoc.
I’ve realist paintings—of moons, influence, dance and
ballet. So big the picture—with waves whirling, hearts thumping, elaborate
skies,
elemental fires; to have sung a miracle, unsung
scripture, consecrated ideals … gross oversights, internal strife, most
anything placed in ruins. I’d love best in chimes,
fireflies floating in circles, fireballs headed to concentration. To adore her is
uneasy. She has motives. Her threshold, nevertheless,
is fluid, like rivers flowing, much determined, another maxim digested. She
betrayed sunshine, part unknowingly, nothing said
remained silent, it speaks a voyage in its leakage. The manner of graves, old
persons, the way they perish softly, the song they
sang, the singsong dilemma; a soul chasing freedom, chained to behaviors, no
one quite
delivers to exoneration; the essence in its maps—flame
in its fury—self-determination as it wanes gently.
By arts to have convinced soul the angle of angels
fleeing the cycle; to look closer the waves are flaming, if to live as to
die—the ropes of
silence. Malaise as it soars into opera; havens in
falsehoods, personified in deliverance, with contradiction seeming to make
sense;
purified in an instance, sullied by filthy feelings,
doing well aside for sudden cravings; the pain as it simmers, a split second
into
forgiveness, as universes sway into realism.
Forever to have loved in person the sorrows converted
into energies; to behave in accordance to consensus, many damages in consensus,
fevered
by consensus; sol attributes the anger of the survivor,
the harsh reality in loving the one as lies would manifest purer appreciation.
A town in space,
a metaphysical aster, so aero-dynamic—those churning
in differences, to hate losing, faced by tomorrows existential.
