clouds move by stealth, flowers seem shy, life appears
as it moves. more to live for means more to perish for—a tear underneath flesh,
an inner sphinx, said to play games, to treasure and demand of itself—surprisingly,
I am he, and he is me. time typing piano, mind playing violin, gifts running
into madness. I thought to adore it, like soil preserves and flourishes seed,
if celebrated, maybe a healthy fortune; nay, too far, maybe a decent life,
mellow souls, serious and carefree. skies seem hectic, darkness appears
brilliant, to announce light. if made of pillows, if soundness is a curse,
there’s difficulty with survival. born headed in direction, only so many years
to build a career, raise a family, and plant a sycamore tree; in this life,
sitting on Sundays, looking for a moment, then up again. time skating,
atmosphere observing, filled with pash, thirsting for liberties—to face a wall,
to realize color, to understand dilemma. moving through coldness, on a warm
morning, filled with ideas—to zero in, to glance at a kitten, to realize, it
has a short life. said it happens in a second, each and everything, to put in
so much effort—born to life, supplied with milk, nursed to an extent, told
about blackness, set to fight in its war; failing to grasp dynamics, wondering
why such emphasis, awakened, to yen for culture—by dread of the Maker, a Gatekeeper,
a Spirit in me.
