Through thorns to have smiled. Through briers to know
deserts. Made into light, plaguing by calling holy, ruby-green hummingbirds.
Years, it shall become, tiles changing coloration, skies deigning, sullen upon
a wish. I need to be honest: upon a whisper those days—upon a chanced reality. Born
to kneel; it affects each of us. If only by mythology, as opposed to
religiosity, wondering if we make excellence—to worship, as in parts of our
mirrors, delicate advice. It doesn’t matter as much, it circulates inside, to
hear meditation, to flame a miracle, so detached from inner seas. To sense a
giant, kept in disguise, I walk, nay, run, hurting self. It was easier those
waves, to become naïve, to feel innocence; upon a wise owl, perfected in
hindsight, never aside for swoosh into a breeze. I’d give it back, if and only
if, upon a promise, upon joys. Last of a dream, to manage debris, wrangling
with intangibility. It compels itself; it feeds itself; without permission. To fret
attachment, something inside, as foreign from a craving appetite; sheer
contradiction, paradox or oxymoronic essence; to be close enough to resist—or better,
to adore internally, and not desire externally.
