Many more shall come—framed by belief—many will become
specimens; ghosts aside, phantoms driven, to imagine what a soul speaks about;
no greater your foundation: hunches, assertions, fragments, beliefs. I was
hungry; I was appeased; I became unclear—facing music, paying attention, asking
questions to an inner judge. A soul spoke God to me. A soul was agitated. I
dared not to provoke him. Faith is often fragile.
I’ve understood something slanted: Differences.
Was sicker. It lingers. I wonder about dynamics:
perception is color coded.
We find claims—we debate over evidence.
To meet her is a project: orientation, brain
maneuvers, categorization. I never asked much, once afflicted, everything seems
to irritate. Most of us have pet-peeves—little irritations.
We lost souls, feeling mitigated, walking aimlessly:
brewing sunshine, competing at all times, souls find a reason to live.
It isn’t fancy. It just steadies in pathologies, at a
point to wonder more. I never answer it.
Mental apogees. Linguistic challenges. Native born.
You found each other: her, a mother, you, some type of
parent;
you each passed assessments, laughed at points, a
rough ride.
In a
middle exit, seated in a chair, rooms blend, people talk, it seems similar,
sameness of activity, sameness of assessments.
Never
owned self. Never figured him out. Self manipulates self.
(I
didn’t create the understanding.)
By puppeteer, to imagine position, one will see you,
that one will exploit you.
Sung
soulfully, taught to sin, I can’t remember my first lie.
He showed pains over steeling fruit. I was amazed. Years
passed. I grew disgusted.
A father
destroyed his son—he took his life—over an argument.
A
mother sinned against her daughter—her daughter is trying harder.
More shall come—framed by belief—many will repeat what
has been learned.
I seldom confront it. It seems senseless. It has
meaning. Wraiths, we say. Feelings bleeding. Puffing ignorance. Not a pun. More
something we never speak. A pond at a park, a pigeon made crafty, a serenity
art. Language connects us. To imagine psychiatric jargon. We become comfortable
looking at reflections, or dearly uneasy. After a time, I need to walk further.
Darkness is ever present. Enlightened darkness. Withering
darkness. Astute, intellectual darkness.
I seldom let it rest—unfastened dogma, deep
indoctrination, deeper rivers, a forest on deserts, a child asking for
something, an adult watching skies.
She had help dying. No one is claiming that. Life is
passing by. In feeling, one might realize something is missing. In emotion, one
might require logic—if to sort through caves. If she might find peace.
