Looking for it. Searching regions. It seems all that life is. A cultic perfection, eyes in souls, souls made capturing. Many subtleties, panting at God’s leniency. Most
damaged, sights shift, most celebrated. Pondering crucifixion, such reality, entertaining with ghosts, to conjure a chemical, to appear in a vase. And Love met
Nirvana; And Love returned to the forests. I wasn’t with laughter, laughing at self, nonetheless, void of laughter. Moving swiftly, fretting the trance-less states,
cheerful for the spirits rise. So lithe, so cagey, so neat—and more those ashes, longing by ghost towns, fevered as it churns. A feeling made morose, at an impasse, it
seems radical to assert it, & one depends on silence. Tides & torrents; taunted & touted; looking at what it becomes; unfavored, aside for response—changing for assessment,
promised the procedure, with parts wishing against skies. To read a Psalm, to envision a valley, each vale a nation, in realizing cultural endurance. A neat picking, plucking
berries, pausing to nibble a nectarine. Such a sickroom. Souls’ longing for ease. Pleading everything inside. To find a feeling. To become suspicious of it. Life is spent trying
not to hurt. One is missing life. Servile to fear. While something is taking place, a little uncanny, a little unique. One has done it before. Asking we praise her. I ponder
over—Can we see her? A mixture of empathy & apathy. One foot in, one foot out. Praising the genius inside. It’s not my place to point out those clouds. To dispute with the
puppeteer—I’ll remain in my space. Such razing is in place—to sense too much, pulling consciousness back, becoming bits & pieces of something crucial. In destroying
something, the destroyer becomes something, eventually, one meets his or her own. Such conflict. In worrying about something occultic, one has become a cult.
