With agitation soaring, with uneasiness in ribs, with
heaving—puffing passion; like a drum inside, figuring it gets that way, filled
by a futuristic hope. Upon a kanjira, aside a bassoon, yelling over a tuba—life
failings. Born again. Pulled in deeper. And there you were, a mystic, a gift
from havens, a piece of a problem. I would observe. I’d smile. I never laughed.
It seemed inauthentic. It amazes how difficult we are; moreover, it amazes how
righteous we are. Like meraki, too many words, like excellence, like jewels,
like memories soothing the rain; to imbue you with characteristics, to presume
it must be that way, to need something I created. [Yugen.] another word. Just
beauty beyond kalon, beyond scope, something unreasonable, mental, surmised in
a laboratory. Made into a creature, remaining with calmness, so placid, Love
watching, as in Above Watching. You were religious and anti-religious. Your
life was set: each piece put in place. I was antiquated, old-fashion, some
atypical apostate, an apostle, sameness of souls, if one reads it closely: a
mystic.
The sun has been glistening, flowers speaking Spanish,
the hearts filled with somber holiness. It seems familiar, similar spirits,
slaving to feel correct—begging the question, right?
Nonetheless, out of bad stock, a wild steed, darkness,
dungeons, an interior funeral. If honesty counts, it amazes how we need to aid
what’s seen as broken.
Written in logic, felt in spirit, souls running a
rapid race. All for fortitude, all the more for rectitude, not addicted to an
outcome, wrestling with perception, debating a drink, not chuckling at all.
I remember you. You seem similar to the rest of us:
beauty raging to break free, words jumbled up, petals crying, lions and lioness
roaring in a desert—to conquer self is to conquer worlds, to learn to love, to
learn whom to love, to carry self with honor, to pride intelligence with pride,
to create prose, to battle poetry, to know differences. So indifferent, so much
sameness, facing immortality.
