She might dream intensely; she might die in each dream.
It’s a spell, mental mysticism, too great by fantasy.
The secrets we hold, by whispers we utter, losing to win existence.
Listening to sullenness, winning sorrow’s joys, to need with desolation.
I felt when it opened, so foolish by design, everything in its addiction; by defect to strike at perfection, by solemn rain to water grass; she was born a mantis, she became a dragon, she worships elements, dear dark skies.
She lets go, mind at powers, souls come running across plains—
sheer devastation, cuddled in her fortress, typing spirit-chords, begging for more power. Deeper talents, art eschatology, welkin stars, celestial excellence.
I remember an air of sectarianism. I, too, delighted in those berates; some would be offended—others might notice a steeper truism.
It kept soaring. I saw to a climbing nature. And never would one condescend—to partake with defection, to parlay upon regions.
Just learning a deeper reality, trying to extract purity, finding flawless joys are by negation.
I’ve said nothing, it seems we find life, in mystery of an estate where mind powers are never vetted; softer music,
miserable comforts, reminded of her silencing me.
I imagine days have been fair—a few kids, a decent home, a healthy husband; indeed, still chasing, still locating, still finding something unlikely, unfair in design, radicalized in thoughts.
No proclamations. No tales of pining. Just curious. Without evidence. Just presence, to vet presence!
I sense a greater manuscript, a darkened element, a person beneath the person. Nothing spectacular. Nothing grand. No affidavits.
Just walking aside, a shadow, just thinking of connectivity. Archetypes, if we would.
Slow pacing—those taller lights—to speak while saying nothing.
A talent in us, a gift with thunder, upon a clock, lingering in our existential. I imagine other eyes, made privy to folly, so neat in analyses; analogous to a tragedy.
I thought of learning this magic—to tread upon consciousness, to force one to dream; I thought of those tall tales I’ve read, I sense someone is hermetic, mantis, gifted, in deep darkened pains—do forgive the assertion. We must watch each other!
Never we mind the obvious.
I imagine humans have unending tendencies—
many harm ourselves, we must learn how to sit in stillness—maybe defeatist talk!
I wish her excellence, further perfection, deep solace, calmness of being, love in arms made mystical.
Indeed, if it’s written, what book was it?
To embark upon a forest trail, to discover unopened skies, to believe, seek, find, and become sorrows.
The joy of isolation.
The love of power.
