A soul will see self clearly with petals dripping
tears. I’ve hidden better parts, indicative responses, tile and gurus, art and
literature. The desert sprouts a rose, cacti becomes sweet, most kindred
spirits fathom the lakes; bent a certain way, whistling to winds, whispering to
etymology—not much room for contempt. A grand influx, tables heavy, art
condemned, nephews following prints. History has exiled intelligence. Most
bewildered souls, of like mindedness, we pray at a pantheon. Grieving an
operose—gargles watching, most will if they were provided—those waving curses,
majestic efforts, trying to remain parts of self. Most primal instincts, (it’s
sameness, it never changes nothing, a similar response), others to skies,
climbing clouds, participating in the great debate. In truth, both out of margins,
both recentered, both to destroy each other.
