The boogie man, made silent, to see ghosts; one would
say mind is askew, in need of antiquity, fretting its own voice.
By soul if spirit is motion, again with winds framed
in omens, so tickled, so blasted, running into ghoulish antiques.
It isn’t enough, to give all, it must be with
particular wilderness, monks on high, sages coming down mountains—the miracle
of integrity, those at particular obligations, soft sung monasteries.
Deep bass, breaking skies, laughing with sincerity.
A day
like another day. A field like no other. A promise most believe in.
Resurrected!
Fuels for engines. Minds filled with transmissions.
Courage of the human lions.
