Divine bedsheets, polyester
pillowcases, old bowls of noodles—a perfect tone, alluring satisfaction, proven
vibes, going soul first.
Social mind-saws. Murmuring electricity.
An element missing, neither emphatic, nor a broken piston, still, feeling
pulled back, trying forward drive, if physicality would appease the appetites.
I rebuke myself!
At an inner stage, art’s striptease,
at a banquet eating a petal.
It
turns vile, a dear discussion, the pain in its address—fretting morosity, the
way I see life, it seems beige; highs for lows, doing it differently, living a
maze.
I
kneel down along a seashore and cup a patch of seaweed. It’s a long pause,
trying in one breath—to feel existence; never knowing arrival, just sentiments,
hearing beauty in silence—the art of loving strangers, asking permission—to enter
heart and home.
Colorful kaleidoscope. Those seconds,
those moments, a sound, a voice, keeping it at soul-depth.
Deep woods. Deeper feelings. Backdrop
emotion. To owe everything, to try in payment, ever short on discussion.
Closer than belly cords,
separated from self, estranged from an entire life, asking to be fixed (if one
would know being fixed)—the love as it breathes, the presumption sung wrongly,
if only to depend on the greatest souls—moving slower, negotiating inside,
navigating inner motion.
