I could never sleep, in spite of surrendering, with one dying to sustain a spark. Some
terrific chaos. Some jammed sincerity. To look at religiosity—to dare ask: What do
you carry? In my trespass, a wraith—it seems, to wonder about strength. To stand
accused, accursed, threaded by silken cobwebs; those with smaller eyes,
determined skin, resilient boundaries—just to have known, just to have flight, cozy in a
cozening den. Nothing more could matter, nothing more shall sin, with passions and art
made whimsical. The skies fell, an appearance was made, inevitable
countenance, blazing lights, an ordeal of greatness. We return to life. We adore what
measures, else it dies. Plus, it never hurt that much, it never curdled but a little, it never
reached as an absolute—by principle—by maxim—to leave alone what retreats. To
take a storm. To unsay a dam. So tacit about folly. So deliberate by endurance. To never
upon a dream. To trespass a little: (Would one be able to leave life, never again to have
a feeling, never but a stranger? (this is where the poet shares his philosophy). Someone
knee deep in an inner seed, quick to withdraw, quicker to notice, to return, to
center his earth; wafting in daylight, wrestling a dream, speaking silently).
Nothing matters. This is the blessed curse. One more round. One more need. Those
landscapes. Those ghosts. Those memories. A soul will force a spirit to lie.
So close to a lighthouse. Indebted to a powerhouse. Threaded over again.
Wondering of those tales. Prided as a secret.
If but a confidant; if but a revelation—into a
revolution;
tall buildings, rooftop binoculars, deeper
concentration, mixed with arts,
wondering if anything should matter.
