Out the miracle the trenches and souls filled with
electricity; many getting rich, others feeling wealth, so immaterial—the honor
of the thief, the flight of the dungeon, at bottom and rising; it’s amazing, so
good in an instance, so inverted in a second—the music might help. Letters supersede
each other, behaviors change from person to earth, with boundaries crossed with
purpose—just to breathe. I hear inside the interior: “You have no choice; You
must tolerate it.”
Indeed, a fret in a mirror, to walk away and glance,
such a glimpse of memory—like de ja vu. And Art was sick, to see itself, too
far to relax, too much to decompress. Came from the gates, those vines, eating
and sipping grapes—the fool in the light, the proselyte angry, giving life to
progeny; so deep the spell, so crazed in rumor, not many facts on the table. I step
left, I step right, I tread a trail, and many facing themselves. Winning was illegal, souls chancing rules,
like most realities, there wasn’t a choice. If many knew actuality, to know it never mattered,
one is destined to act in accordance—to style, sacrifice, greed, and stars—with
most of us defying gravity. Like
field work, depth of tolerance, if to survive the blood pressure; and fire
eyes, skin with flame, art like dying. Too much losing—if to keep reality, the
position is blatant—a scar in the battle, a war in the brains, like Love was
asking for deaths; if sudden to
ache, to start screaming, with an audience watching—she
was manic, broken, speaking epithets—the worse of a person, the euphemisms we
tolerate, much more in agonies. Walking
eastward, meditating, chanting, opened souls, too young to articulate it, it
gets different with age—the address in spirit, those candles flickering, it
came by a whisk.
