Can’t retrieve music. Can’t discover roots. Can’t
articulate source. It happens, oddly enough, to analyze listeners. Systematic beliefs,
quick to assail, memories saving his life.
Neurology became intimate—fraught by reasons, to
travel, investigate the synaptic pond.
Upon a whisper the power of the rose, symbolic petals,
realized watchers.
Petting an elephant, dreaming about queens, climbing
the high mountain. Smelting self. Redeemed in time. Promised something
extraordinary. We leave those thorns, kick
tumbleweed, walk the ghost towns. The war seems
evident. I sound different at moments. To hear Zimbabwe. To know sources. Failing
the deeper self. Walls inside. It was
interesting. Pushed into a corner, by souls dedicated
to liberty. So many singing silence. To imagine how souls exist: the
self-assistance, winds in diaries, if children knew the
outcome. Under-graves, inside of catacombs, ancient
bones, hieroglyphics, reasons for confidence. The fight is a mirror. The world
is its reflection. Understanding is its perception. To witness as seen is good,
to witness as intended is better.
