You Made It Look Easy
You made it look easy, though it was killing you. In discovering perfection. In becoming a conduit. To live a favorite lie. So made of ingredients. Those cryptic moments, to sense incredible tension, with rain falling, with cadence awry. What makes us human, can make us inhuman. I was with admiration, to no fault of yours, you happened to dance that way. One too many observations, upon a thread, to imagine what you deserve. I would insist upon a fancy, to ponder pure ecstasy, with life unmeasured, with days alone, so close, so neat, so abandoned. Something to being human, something dissatisfied, uncanny, as it sets against itself. Such reaching. Such rebuilding. So many furtive yearnings. So many secret wars—with others, more with self. To have passed by, looking like magic, so clean in a given second. Too wise. Filled with somber airs. If this feeling were uncapturable—I’d be in another space. I never would want distraction, if to appreciate manuscripts, if to have loved by miseries—a feeling in pains, a heightened elevation, torn low, rising high, rolling around clocks. You made it look easy, though it was killing you. I uncovered a fact for some, chasing excellence is eternal. They never stop. Life is there, but it doesn’t disrupt an endless pursuit to conquer imperfection.
Inking Muse
In whispering a name, treading darkened clouds, we see spirits. Such nebulous remains, a graveyard of bones, memories, agitation. We lock wits, in locking eyes, knitting illusion, having seen some secret person. If days revealed her, if she found comforts, in becoming true essence. Such a dangerous beauty, overwhelming beauty, so disbelieved beauty. There’s something to it, something cadent, universal, cosmic worrying. Pure opalescence, irrigating fog, tenebrous origins. By orison; a dear type of intensity, a dearer type of behavior. (It’s been some time.) In musing upon features, characteristics, those oceans rage, those skies billow, over a deeper deluding. Needing some vision, far more appealing in its chase, far more captivating. When life is there, to have gazed into winds, to have palmed earth, imagining you’d know what to say, what to do. Back to erasing feelings, hampering fancy, disputing facts, separating realities. Today will mingle in another world, passing a poem, knotted, drained, some sort of excellence. And Love is multivalent, moving through insistence, prepared to enter cadence, overwhelming hertz, struck in one sense, disenchanted in another. So many hills. Such calming incense. A picnic assortment. A necessitating blanket. In memory, some fantasy, to have passed away.
Fossils
What is that feeling, as it dissipates into realities? Listening to an under breath, sore into excellence, sharing those better waves. In what can’t be, souls discover what could be. Perfect boundaries. Imperfect hurting. Looking to cleanse. Life is more mental than tangible. That feeling must be excruciatingly vulnerable. Humans pause that way. In the memory we sew joy. I can’t understand the celloist; I can’t fathom the affliction. And hand to heart, chi suffused, some type of healing. Arms reach into cedar-chests, phantoms awaken, soaring through cosmos, such a spirit whisk. To have adored a mirage, figments of inner dimensions, displeased with actuality, framed in one hope. Thinking to self, no greater reality, seized by survival, wishing upon silence—moving by motion, sullen into coffee, nibbling a muffin, noticing life moving. So much watching. It passes by. In my tenacity, with all I can muster, I knit a quilt, I crochet a blanket. When senses wither, and all that is left is intuition, will it suffice? To arrive at unconditional, to have a space inside, what is that feeling? Such six-sense teleology, filled by purpose, such meteorite heart thumps. When two become one—where nothing separates reality. In its experience, to have known in passing, each thundering heartbeat.
