The skies are harsh with silence until they roar. Such indelible impassivity. I understand a mirror is not literal, more like a caricature, a bunch of bundles, part atrophy of perception. In wishing in one direction, the poet overlooks beauty, passions, semi-miracles. So much invested in one second, to have overwhelming ecstasy, in wandering through an oasis: we might need that, as evidence; if it diminishes in intensity, we might feel hurt: no need in going to that space. The moon is symbolic, nocturnal, whimsical; upon a stream, into a shadow, aloft a feeling; such esoteria, such paining joys, so intimate, so neatly obsessive—the inner flame. To possess fever, to measure against life, to need pure essence, afforded one dream to seal. Partaking of a reservoir; conversing with ravens; speaking to bones, reminiscing upon ancient memories. I sense a mirror means much to souls, reaching for a reflection, falling into a pond. And Love will with fire the depth of skies, sweet indifference, becoming more of what troubles humanity; strumming an instrument, dying gently, each word missing by totality, each feeling needing closure; to compose a decent letter, in sending shivers, in adoring one’s muse; sunrise brilliance, souls in rapture, sheer excellence, those dear discoveries, those parted dreams.
