So great is courage to assert eternity. To have existence in such a vast desert. If adoring is wrong, we have a few moments. More in some way. Strange to our islands. An aching for solace, if to defeat odds, if to make for paragons. Too afar in spirit, too close in soul, warring mental paradox. Where one appears, another will exit, one must have roots, large bark, sturdy branches, healthy leaves.
The garden is for perfection. The soil is for sickles.
A soul will sit in presence, and presence is absent. This is the alertness of it all, the battle ground.
One will season apology, fretting his earth, falling inside, such a moment with humanity, and it means so little.
In expansion, people are wailing for love. We have an understanding of an ideal, with life weighing in the balance.
And it becomes serious; and it might spike its tea; and it might be some type of liquid—those skies watching, and it might not believe, with courage to become deity, with pains lurking, as it walks by shadows.
In watching creatures, in making posits, in peering into opalescent personality, to see innocence, as it looks and smirks, or makes a grimace, or smiles nonchalantly … in capturing itself, by its walkaway—so grand an ocean, so vast those falling clouds, such thunder by grace, to again strike a nerve, in one thrown to lightening.
To wax in fashion, to miss a piece, to have alarmed a culture, to make nice, with gravity pushing animosity.
Those weeping benches—to a soul with horizon, iridescent pains, beautiful agonies, in discussing something foreign to innocence, at home with maturity.
With hearing a voice, slightly participating, seeing it unfold, knowing literature, too many breakable rules.
With courage waning, lethargy creeping, succumbing to complaisance, to gaze over and sense presence, to die in presence, to know life is missing presence.
