Wilder and Wider than seas, fluid into rivers, a
private lagoon—pictures in unison, or astray, with more dependent on horizon—indeed,
pure darkness, never say those beautiful things—when such treachery has befallen
those lips. Or connectivity,
International Spiritualism, to have come so close to a
decision. I speculate. I dream. How long would it be love? So distorted, always
watching, asking for time to fall enlove, to walk into it, to strut away, bold,
indifferently, used, and using. Is this not love? Nay. She
dances for some. Cries for others. Most addicted to souls
of grandeur—the silent ache, enlove with sophistication, or plainness, or
something confusing—can’t find her, can’t find self, moving, feeling, watery
eyes, cadence, explosive, Gone! It must be poetry, as it
ends tragically. Nonetheless, there’s a couple up the
way, 55-years at it, laughing, playing, exercising, pure love. I wouldn’t dare
ask if they can define love.
Two satiate each other. They are closer than peas. I
can’t ask what we intuit. To feel gray
skies, pondering some illness, to love dearly, as life
takes a detour. To feel angry, indebted, to have known a wonderful person, to
have shared eternity, in parts, to hear whispers, to remember cadence, looking
upon a sparrow, or a skylark. I speak in ideals.
What is poetry? To speak beauty, politics, truisms,
the grime of existence, all the above? I would write it as roses, and feel
pain. I would compose it as rawness, and receive some chatter. What is perception
painting inside?
