A chance to waltz, Lord, on a chord in orison, a few
too many words. Organic is harder. I met her in a daze, she was bent on ideals,
we couldn’t tolerate philosophies. I was drawn to her violin, her mysticism,
her art. They call it by a name. I felt like a dirty sweatshirt. She felt like
raging anger—so composed, a second in time, everything comes to pass: a lie!
She worshipped science, was raised in religiosity, couldn’t shake the Great Anchor.
An inner paradox, a schism, trying to piece a puzzle together. I admired her
swagger—enjoyed her resistance—hurt to see her twitch. A brilliant mind, a
deathzone appetite, an advocate of chaos. I’ll leave that alone, to speak it is
to provoke it, and Love strikes into atmosphere: protecting the castle. What if
anything—veneer and shadow—to unveil nature? There into it, laughing with
music, crying with religion. Tried it. Easing into the violin. At something
like a jigsaw; hearing my thoughts, angry with my lineage, can’t put it that
way. It might be forever: despair, triumph, same cycles. I don’t speak it. I
don’t endorse it. To live it, like an endless touch, like a yogini intrigue. I
was inclined to walk away. I was confused about humans. I kept to a dear ideal.
I now fathom ethics—the mystery in humans, how it sticks with a select few. And
adoring it when it struck, to imagine living, at a point, where it seems heavy.
