I can’t capture it. It opens by its will. It finds itself. Some numen flame, afire in clouds, surety of its nature; holy sinners, infinite forgiveness, repentance as its understanding; to live in thought, to become proposition
affixed to perception.
If I break its curse, to outsoar its fixation, it might resist; nature of its essence, finding itself, to be in a mirror, two are there, the two are one, time is slipping into darkness.
By an interior priest, souls become masochistic—others seem sadistic.
Sweating intensity, kneeled low, forehead to grass, earth bears witness.
Reflecting on souls, trying to pick a lock, if to unleash a spirit, to unveil the inapparent.
Complex silence, mental components, stardom of stars—religious science.
If finding it—as it breathes—a point to suggestion, an art in boldness, to sense completeness, to chisel away at indifference.
I was addled afore a thrown, nibbling brier, fumbling like tumbleweed—sheer bliss!
So confusing, after what wasn’t mine, assured of its wealth, never quite prepared enough.
To contend ideologies, to praise idols, to feel cast low—pure negation springs delights.
I can’t capture it. It opens by its will. It finds itself.
