If those moments were sacred, how
have they died, if the focus is immortality? I sense blockage. I can’t speak
it. A dream raffles an instinct. I can’t speak it. It seems obsolete, as it
weakens its presence. I must speak it—those islands must welcome us. It becomes
more difficult to reach the sacred space—as deeper in us, a place fraught by
unkindness. Feelings and emotions … visions and fantasies … imposition and
naturality.
Bolted to science, voltage through
religion, spirit motion and dreams; to know esoteria—by a plausible frame,
wrists given to belief; a vacuum inside, skies screaming, anxiety in a
stranger; her days meant for anguish, her aches plural, I can’t fully speak it.
I find self a state of being, dear
intensity, still naïve, simple at moments, and critical.
When we met, she was still young, a
semester after marriage, she was apprehensive to speak. I saw it, what I can’t
speak, its elusive, built-in illusion, for though she cries, her laughter is
infectious. A soul running to itself, finding solace, able to believe in
itself.
I couldn’t walk further away, it’s
similar the same, to witness a knew but similar set of characteristics. Emotion:
pulling, yanking, pushing, and tugging, even to repulse at times.
I can’t talk it. It
dwells in sin. Plus, it’s holy.
A
strange, froward design.
I
can’t speak it anymore.
