By interior skies, warned of hues, with value
undermined. Wilder spirits, gentle paw prints, or bells ringing—days wandering,
to ponder phantoms. It lives in him, we’ve noticed webbing, removing gossamer,
to slight avail. Country eyes, city wits, reduced to humility, in part those
times, rhythm sweet sounds. I was relaxed it seemed, to become a puppet, with
darkness begging its creation; to dwell near static, to undo a feeling, over a
cloud of rumors. I was with anxiety, bathing in angst, watching time deride
wilderness. Most are facing a desert, a monastery, or famous for particular
company. Upon a petal, filled by passion, made placid with rules. If sung
gently, infused with powers, most might give an ear; fury of mysteries, numen
permeance, radiant antipathy … snippets of snapping, many need fathom, with
being human as a ruling maxim. By interior skies, unwitty of circumstance,
sensing palms slipping from helms. To have given sanity, to beseech a
phantasmagoria, wrestling reality—disputing excellence, chastised for
soundness; with memories of redundancy, to imagine why—into another galaxy. Gentle
paw prints, harder weather, or silent walking rain.
