Tomorrow is sunshine, today is winter.
Beauty is Morning Star, with much to deal with.
Sweet celebration. Neat waves, supposing excellence, backs displaying mirrors, and we fathom a chasm;
to remember it, to examine it, to realize—it was desperation. I would lie, if to suggest—it could’ve been another, taking from self, laughing over embarrassment, but—it’s not true.
We paint pictures, palatial exaggeration, paper thin commitments; else a genius, upon viola at three, identified by an instrument.
Or a Catholic seed, knuckles popped, to become stern.
With life advertised; with love magnified; a man eventually interviews himself.
Losing to win; winning to lose; a cycle for souls, inexplicable.
Inexorable cosmos; blatant obedience.
One is first untamed, such dangerous freedom.
Must be without—to appreciate being with—taut, I know; must be with integrity,
in giving to grace, it will die, it will live, it might return to itself:
I envy that; to return to self … absent of violins, encouraged by moons, frequent at an inner mirror.
