There’s division. There’s compromise. In a need for holiness, darkness arises. A soul is in parts deceased. Heart of my heart, infraction of my rain, spirit of my ancestors. We might unwittingly—enchant skies, summons an arcane presence, rather unlock a white flicker; new names, galloping horses, papyrus seals, lions. So little by language, so deep into collectiveness, pulled as it comes forth, tugged by ideals, being human is with scars, dreams, inclusive exclusivity. To have in some order those dragons at war; to need in some galaxy a reason to make it home.
At wrestling with self, some other person’s standard, as if in wrongness—to pass it back. Maybe meandering, escaping a breakthrough, listening to an angelic force—waiting, debating it, wondering will it exult Father, or condemn contradiction—this division in souls; as needing purity, desiring filth, quite broken in senses, quite taken by remorse. To believe in ultimate reach shows humanity of person; else, we struggle with hubris, not to offend; such dear resonance, permitted I’d presume, with little evidence to proffer; to need reaching, as not to give up on reaching, sullen at this moment, more reaching. What have we by inheritance, to cherish what is betrothed—to glide across self, to unfasten latchets, to go deeper, to risk parts of sanity? So great is schism, what I want, I do not do. In truth, as greater in alignment, deeper in stigmata. By scars one believes those unusual wounds—in spirit, at times, it is said, by flesh. I’ve nothing to offer a reader. I’ll not violin necessity. Left with interpretation.
