It feels like Sunday morning, dew on rugs, gloss on
clouds, and thankful for the children; death by living, living by death, a mind
saturated with glory—and much anguish; an existential machine, feuding with the
human condition, so religious in private; many would argue—it means more in
public. So enjoined to you, seeing visions, growling at myself. Much a song-voice,
so singsong, closer to figuring out humans—those powerful wings, so indebted to
teachers, so aloof from normality. Like gremlins coming out, like wilderness
secluded, to pet a canine and walk away. Figuring to lose what was brilliant;
to fathom a soul doing her rightness; like anything is fortified against loses,
wires, seduction. Indeed, a gray area, a map with fury, a demon fretting over
beauty. Waiting to kiss one time, like Cinderella is pure, and one encounter
brings hope to existence.
