The climate in dreams makes freedom. Alike to genetic goodness. Such tigersnake cries. Such harlequin screams; such rabid eyes. If man knew, he’d slow his pursuit. As long as it isn’t discussed, right? Unhappy happiness; unfurled frowns. It’s mazing how we might believe; certain in so many bottles. Brilliant beaming bitterness; new wine, new hopes, similar realities. Man doesn’t need nets, nor snares, life is ever catching up: read an aura, listen to silence, watch and let go. There’s a design underway, and present in arms, the impossible is always unmeasured. God was intricate in creation. S/he made it a certain determination. To reach heaven isn’t difficult; to master arts requires soul conviction. It’s not random. It’s not go-lucky. It’s deliberate. It aches. It denies itself. It holds with dear life. It kills itself to see cosmos unfold. Indeed, it’s easy to exercise all freedoms. It’s easier to damn the self. Raven shadows, stark madness, such power in correct living, such pain, such depth. Souls tend to anticipate goodness. In adoring you doesn’t make for its guarantee; in reciprocating doesn’t ensure said goodness. To lock arms, to need beyond measure, to worship inner church, these alone make mastery. Cyan clouds, deep meaning horizon. Like seeing one’s life presented at the Guggenheim.
