I’d put brains on the table, dispute whispers with flatness.
I wonder how it feels—so filled with human presence.
Does it hurt? Does it leak out?
I swore I never could: boxed in, thawed out, a melting skeptic.
Take the lead. Open the conversation.
To read parts of Nietzsche, and never know Nietzsche.
Inside and feeling, inside with King Jr.
The war is bigger. Pictures remain blurry.
Could worlds disappear, founded upon chaos?
Such frightening woes, so ensouled. And trying to walk, visions tugging, fearing I would ruin it.
It means so much, especially chasing mental screams, like a manifest dream, like fighting for one’s sanity.
I couldn’t lie—all the mocking, held in derision—makes for brokenness, wires on a viola, a little palmed cello, likely to undress a violin.
I keep saying it inside, no one knows love—an unsteadiness, days blurred, to believe love is action, at points, suffering, sanctified, at moments, inert, if to preserve the legend.
To summons emotion;
to sacrifice existence, running through fields, pausing and nibbling wheat—so much invested in a daffodil.
What would it be like—without presence, to desire cosmic freedom, to wonder about freedom?
My advice: We do nothing.
