You are change—unending motion, to fret the Great Darkness;
you give Light, illuminous and wild—so tamed, so veiled.
I approach a curtain, feel the pleats, they look Venetian: stars abandoned, or located, jars half full, or empty—belonging to perception, hovering in deaths, kef over arts.
How does one say it without yielding? Desert song.
To imagine traipsing, dust flailing ankles, faith made in essence, genetic beliefs.
To sudden upon a city, to seize it. We never say — “It was wild.”
I was an adult, reexamining.
Some mysteries are for God only: we peer and gander, fumbling at a zipper—to unleash anxiety.
Souls are tenacious; we unwrapped skies, we decoded behavior; such un-neat exaggeration, such accuracy, such accomplishment; indeed, the Great Failing, to have outwitted Elohim.
I heard about Love; built for aristocracy, knitting iron, ferric pains—those daylight eyes, those sunbeam passions, fused together, gravitating towards deaths.
To look at aesthetics, so shallow our souls, to desire on merit alone;
years walking into wilderness—upon a coppice, palming a venomous spider.
