They say, we never rest: once exposed,
It becomes infinitude.
In becoming human, a soul lost sanity,
A tear to it, regathering spirit,
Trying to smile unease away. Love
Aches, laughs, one could believe in her:
Surrendering to math, debating a
Poltergeist, at a feeling inside—numen
Exhaustion, sunrise glittering,
Abandoned to a long trail. If to secern
Between feelings, as with accuracy, to
Determine into those made silent:
Gravity & earth; dirt, tunic & prayer.
To see it makes it seem negative; one says, “It’s not like that.”
We ask about demographics. We push
For memories, theories, existential
Rinse. By the time it lifts some, one is
Engrained, riddled, embroidered by it.
Nevertheless,
To palm a butterfly, to see an aurora, to
Catch a comet, to laugh without suspicion,
To share popcorn, indeed, we feel a certain way,
To know in self an ability—in becoming
Sentimental; to kneel in consciousness, to stir
A feeling, to see a flower budding, to
Sense a ladybug, to make a wish. Life is
Good in
Parts.
A soul looks upon a newborn, afraid to
Speak.
If it were made this way, it must have
Meaning.
We whisper our concerns.
