She comes from an era.
Spirits dominated.
Souls learned meanings.
Esoteria was made reachable.
She sought the practice.
Most will live in memories; many will shun
them; and many more are trying to forget them. Some hallucinations feel like
freedom; others taste like failing, falling, untamed; and accepting hemlock
takes courage,—some might say otherwise. In time, sour sweetness loses its
sweetness, and remains sour.
Many of us bonded over medicines: life, happenstance,
suffering, art. The symphony is medicinal, made of topaz, flowing into graces,
made of instruments and lungs.
By the jaws of alienation, something is located;
reconstructed for survival.
In the excess—it has become different: I wonder about
the motive—Does it change?
Most
are addicted to the work of their hands.
Most
celebrate a break through; others mourn the up-and-coming events.
By the winds of cheetahs—surging through deserts,
seeming free in their surroundings; the freedom of nature, absent of
repercussion, facing repercussion. Many memory mirrors; many perceptions
watching; many strongly held dispositions.
Spirit
careens into sadness.
Motion
is found in stillness.
Souls
are teeming with insistence.
