Some parts remain uncanny. If to carry a sentence the
distance of its reach and propose by it the excellence of its endeavor. To
meander through shadows granted a wiggle of clarity with insistence upon its
measure. An architect set us to studies, by arts, cadence, crocheted parts;
they remain a mystery the caves of interior, bats watching, winds whispering.
In becoming a piece of what was sought, in disputing the nature of
understanding, we become by philosophic—grace of its rose, pride of its
kingdom, ethos of our dreams. So late for the wedding, with champaign in hand,
mesmerized by the bride. With sealing what comes of a soul abandoned to crisis,
to tether a charm disarming its shields, to become wilderness meeting tropical
forests, days at saving graces. If to believe in a future with solid joy, to
partake of happiness made static in time, a soul might ache with surprise. It
becomes sylvans and it lives in a dear space so close to the beating heart. As
sung into ritual the art is energized, islands evacuated. Found in ether, lost
in expansion, floating into a wafting breeze.
