It is said—souls are to endure, what color is this?
They call it longsuffering: culturally, spiritually.
Some find joy in acceptance, constructed by such premises.
Made more complicated: souls, spirits.
Ignoring smoldering hearts.
Making comfort in caves.
We sense many are unprecedented. Flowers ablaze.
Losing parts of life to find self; by a miracle to sustain it.
In healing others: who heals us?
At points, we suppose.
It all seems repetitious, a few nuances, by spirit we believe, by an inner drive, to experience spirit.
At crossroads, as they say.
Days are filled with memories, fraught by discomforts, a rarity to it all—a decent meal, a glass of tea, particular company.
Sky gold.
Earth courage.
Pulled asunder, asked to swim, making it across seas, sharks swarming, life nearly destitute, upon a reaching palm.
To concentrate on goodness, to avert agonies, at some point to ask: am I with illusion?
So much a need to believe, this is life, with armor fading.
California ambition.
