Sometimes an art is too complex. We keep praying.
One at drums, an African on flute, a soul running from
itself.
The good is mental, activated, distinguished.
An adult experience, an adult
mystic, time is filed by fire.
Too many tears blur a man’s vision.
It isn’t about full clarity, just a smidgen is too
much to carry.
Once
a core is stitched, to change it, it must be unstitched.
Many crops, many reaping, a few have
sewn.
Love makes music, or Love is mocking God.
In
loving her, such naïve love, time was hard to persuade. In losing her, it
damaged something, never understood until by retrospection.
By another venue, an epistemic existence, How in life
to vet each property?
Ultimately, souls are left with indeterminate jazz.
