Gimmickry is by perception, like illusion is by
desire, where delusion is by an imbalance.
A want, nay, desire to wail—indeed, too gray.
A songwriter is held together by tears, if
overflowing, she must pull back, else, a song suffers.
To have it is good, to need it becomes a crux, with
birds flapping, sun shining, clouds clear.
If a musician lost sanity, pushed into madness, we
pray he comes back—
For he’s a seed, steeped in soil, whereby, an oaken
tree rises aside cedars, leaves, & firebrand.
We’ve yet to speak of mirrors, to know for effects, to
sail into 7 seas in self, a perfect number.
It was desolation, partway through, it was
isolation—many cannot fathom, while going through phantoms, to imagine—life can
be roses.
Swaying into portraiture, multiple images, a man
fantasizes too much.
To picture spirits at a soul, to become parts of
invisibility, moving through marshweed, mingling with mayflies, located in
arts, a soul, emotion weaving.
(To have knowledge, to awaken mirrors, to give
something with both spirits, presumed as goodness.)
There’s lyric to rites of moments, a sullen shadow, a
beautiful monster.
Going through an umbra, fretting various binoculars,
in justification we say, such a person was trained.
Thinness of lines, hunches at seconds, stronger for a
tsunami.
