Lunarias flood gardens. Insistence becomes symbolic. An
impression on brains.
Artistic curses, threshed, winnowed, regathered again.
It isn’t impossible. It seems reality in twain.
Most concerned over the matter: to have lived a
lifetime, to have met several, to settle for prose.
Not fair!
Ironic existence, higher caliber, pushing an issue.
It reaches beyond its existence. It goes back in time.
It has a futuristic flavor, a historic soreness.
With days in rain, smaze wafting, hours aside
smokestacks.
Clouds as guidance. It goes further back.
Sweet opaqueness, soothing nebulosity, eyes filled with
potions.
To awaken, no otherness to it.
One says: I wake him up.
One says: It’s platonic.
He says: Is one able to let go?
It, most often, resembles research—this is what we do
to souls we disregard: humans vs. items and things.
Either way, treading seashores, mingling and moving,
to have one, to know for authenticity, bothered, for it should mean more, while
it meant nothing in essence.
Thus, persistence!
Humans are fairer creatures, subject to behaviors, in
loving one, there’s a need to separate meanings, else, surefire rain.
Hear it or discount it: reality catches up to itself.
A sacred space, a sanctum, to arise in spirit, to
arrive in soul, forced to sense self, to count waves as they bend, against
songs remaining sadness, to imagine innocence.
