Through dim lights, those arts, chest deep in prayers. They call us dense, another pleat, to debate phenomena—some property. Essentially turning inward, an indwelling universe, a kingdom of components. Wondering of what greater love—in the midst of reality, or plagued by phantasmagoria. To conjure it, or to awaken in it: such fruit upon fertile grounds. It seems a thought connects with a heart & the two generate resonance. The thesis of spirit, the dissertation of God. Just us, moving through diamonds, redecorating pictures, sweeping darkness. In meeting mystery, she possessed confidence, she had an edge to her. Life was intimidating, & judgmental. Couldn’t paint it differently, eyes filled with deer. Pushed into orison, flame flickering, energy wafting, invisible testimony—such serious souls. To have mention of love, to imagine what it means, aside for desiring possession; we name attributes, pleasing, this is what we have achieved. Upon an old album, into a chest made of cedar, to awaken in a sweat—so curious about meaning. During church time, to glance over, to connect like it was ordained—the ghosts we filter through; to have existence, free of commodities, pure with passion flowing.
