I came to, and most is unfinished—lines are unsteady, even blurry, tides are unfixed … much murmuring, a fettered dream, an uncanny irony; mind of trumpets, chatter in its background, tender silence as it churns. To know depth, dispute of destination, soul of its desperation. I came to, a fog was adrift, filled with smaze, semi-verboten. By those letters we live, those days we sit, a moment to feed ducks and geese; roaming an armoire, deciding on clothing, disrupted by sceneries and personas. I could aid one, with all I can give, to watch it slung to memories; trying to hold eternity, trying to outwit mortality, nights seem memorable. Wildflowers—desert daffodils, ocean dahlias—to love like a man is wheezing, to absorb skies and screams, if to feel that certain, irrepressible numen. By dungeon beauty, monks, mystics, and priests—but a writhing soul. Such ambivalence, as it was intended, to call a man callous; medallions in dreams; insistence upon belief; a newer version of the olden us. I came, and most is unfinished, unto epiphanies, innocence seems to scrabble; tried inside, vocal to self, anything has its preference; fey as it whispers, a thought to glamour, wondering do souls satiate faith.
