Idyllic ideals. Creative compassion. Avenue artists.
We pray for decency. We surprise ourselves by keeping passion.
I was filled with thoughts, desperate to get right: I found a schism.
Love with emotion. It’s strange when life seems orderly.
But that’s enough of that.
To have sighted one made human, as one made divine, so great a curse.
If I say it—it weakens the message.
We don’t like hearing certain thoughts.
That’s enough of that.
I wondered what she meant: complete soundness wrestles with briers.
I tussle with it. I let go. Brains speak. Spirit is made alert. Soul chatter.
Many ideals to attain to; many uncanny beliefs.
Certain groups—is what souls have: select souls: cosmic communion.
A thought appeared: how many marionettes?
Better: how many feel like puppeteers?
A couple of those outlawed thoughts.
Enough of that.
I sense deeper beliefs, not so casual, benthic science, rabid reality.
An effusion at times, such sagacity, more suffusion.
Palming earth, gazing into orbits, filled with vortexes.
And an Angel is human, manipulating itself, an emphatic impression.
