rooms are large. The inner office is crowded. Pitch blackness, a little light flickering. I hear it clearly, Paint a picture.
On a side note: What is intimacy?
The darkness we share—the path we bend, the deaths we live.
Back to its course: treehouses, snakes in caves, legs running, fangs deeper in souls: endorsed, filled with lies, trying to swim freedoms.
By her collar: Episcopalian.
Those rooms open wider; brilliance, awe, hands to clay.
Literal liturgy, concrete baptism, a public confession: heart wings, paw clamping, clear out the inner office.
Spirit motion.
On another note: Explain the nights.
A soul trance—most enthralled, washed feathers—we go further back: I now fathom, core reasons are mediocre,
gray moon fever, sunlit fields, cotton made evil.
I was a pawn. I didn’t like it. I became a bishop. I liked it. Moving into action, thrust through, a sword at the mind. Long live Jesus!
Fluidity: this is culture. Free flowing, this is torture.
I fear for him.
The war seeps out, it leaks into traffic, the graphic circumstance.
But …
a soul goes hungry, for too long, it builds a creature, it makes for all or nothing.
To speak it moves me, to practically forfeit life, to give a care—to say it politely.
The charm of desperation.
The picture is foggy; we knit quilts, spirit crochets, to dismount as we gallop. Sweet lamentation. Witness to shoulders.
Deeper into self’s pasture, formed in the bowels of religion.
Birds made lavender. Sky providence. To have adored in passing what hurts more.
