The last of the lights. It’s a lonely dimension, surrounded by spirits. To fret the magic, addicted to the mystic, fretting indifference. To remain in silence, part unsettling, if to mention dreams to an audience. Grappling walls with Isaiah, threshed by depression, trying to write like Jeremiah. Filled by kilowatts; looking at northern beauty; going through a neighbor’s baptism. The lights were unsung. One stumbled upon it, to reread it, to notice something peculiar. “The Kingdom suffers violence, the violent take it by force.” A dark, southern voice. As it draws out, reverberating, a bright torch, innocent gravity. Such allusion—surprised by inner activity. Captured by a scar. It took most of one’s energy. To love nonetheless. To defeat the ache with compassion. As ideals: sapphire prayers, Israelian tribes, African origins, European syntax: thrown into theoretical(s), compelled by practicality, desperate to defend faith—to each is a battle, filled by airborne feelings; inmost waves, taupe eyes, threshed, threaded, trying to maintain courage. Never to recriminate a soul; carrying my adventures, wondering what the next generation looks like—will lights appear? Topaz skies, forbidden lure, remaining part militant. So sublime, physically perceptible, it can’t be measured, it refutes its vehicle.
