It means little—depth a scar, midday
weariness. I see images, skies – living isn’t easy. I do it with grains, I dream
stoic, an epicurean slant. I walked the cemetery—I saw flowers, a mystery must
have deigned. I flutter inside, flicker at seams, since I’ve felt us. It means
little, called in his screenplay, we die quickly. A rose for an ache, a dream
for a soul, to need holiness, also filth, human pangs, dying to meet life. I was
at reason, I felt it right, losing to make excellence, it seldom happens. It seldom
changes. We play a game with ourselves. It means chess. It goes astray, with us,
or without us. It remains dishonest. It
doesn’t deviate. It has a problem
with ideals. To have lived them, with closets chasing, to stand in alliance. It
means little. [But] over yonder, those brown lenses, to have selected another,
to have given mind over, to need more to live on time: detached, scientific,
that feeling, where we can’t cross out, even if desired. Blockage. Training. With
unfamiliar emotions. Years in a box. To become parts of perfect. If one knew
what stirs beneath the flame; spirit meaning something, souls fraught with
existence, love seeming impossible. It’s mis-defined—it can’t be an ideal, for
ideals never measure cries.
