To have breath undefiled, to have existence, to know namaste. In being a monk, a nun, a soul; in making waves, celebrated in California, lower plains, debris, rereading excellence. Remaining elusive, or made concrete, upon an abstract guitar—sheer music, explosive angst, to have touched with trepidation; to have located gnosis, to have dined with ethos, by hectic life, by
gravid faith, in-for-out those winters. Enter my dreams, echoing, smiling, exhausting anger—to have life, why should another suffer, those visions into a pool of wonder? It really matters less, she does not live for you, he does not live for others; abstract destinations, greed of faith, clutching eternity; freely we exist, freely we passion life, reluctantly we pass over—dismissing
our days,
battling reality, harder lives, uneasy about leaving. In the need for what he didn’t fathom, the art of the machines, to realize the understanding of what he needs, her life in ghosts, her prints in phantoms, her nights typing his guts; golden shadows, webs & gossamer, a palm holding a spirit, a spirit holding a soul, to have life in its disguises. We speak about sages & sagebrush; we do art
& pain; our days are fraught by diamonds, noise, lust & needing; greater souls divest the souls of their splinters. Nothing is said of those dice, gray language is enticing, too much beauty is held accountable; thread of my soul, swimming with powers, what happens when we grow immune? What person is next? To have offered eternity, (a little intrusive on my part), but still, to have
offered eternity, only to walk away, was it worth it? The math is a monster: she dines on emptiness, full of research, needing what peters out, for self is growing exponentially; maybe sentimental, (I don’t know),
maybe I do—nevertheless, (echelon), it struck a chord: Could one explain anything far removed
from skies and ladders and coats made of finer furs?
To suck self into a ball, to ensure nothing leaks out, to take all and give nothing—for he can’t be trusted, or he’s dangerous, or, I am him.
Back to something found precious, days with kindness, artistic secernment—reminiscing on
Moses, asking for Aaron, mad at Miriam – to pause & return, to live & assume dying, so oldened, ancient, with familiar skills, a knowingness, a scripture, warning against such a person—myself.
To feel as one appears. Her afternoons watching notes, drinking water, running a treadmill, trying
to play it calmly; a soul is interesting, could never get closer, it just doesn’t have that to it. Indeed, new skills develop, new destinations evolve, to decide in art – semi-appreciation – debate – trauma – healing – etc.
In saying he felt some element, he runs the risk of never feeling another element. In being
diligent, careful as we are, we might overthink it, for it gives life to overthink it.
It matters more today. It means something more. In being patient, she strikes against clouds, she sips fruit juice, she pauses. He can never measure another. She can measure him. The question is surrounded by correlation. (It would be ironic if they needed each other. (Bear with it.) The first
rounds stipulated that neither one of them can be trusted with each other’s emotions. In the need, it would be excruciating). Indeed, overthinking it.
Souls move through prisms. We forgive until it erupts again, as reminded of infraction for some reason. However, what if she is trained, at best, (Friends), on par with her initiatives, she runs the
show. Would he pardon the trespass? If by chance they never solidified ultimate war, and by chance started to fit in somehow, with all properties intact, nothing defiled, on her terms, would that be sufficient enough? A soul speaks to something. A spirit is keen. Neither challenges the soul nor spirit, but the pain, to smooth things out, as two are destined by healing.
