By instinct to adore, this is mesmerization. A man tries to live, by grace’s name. So thrown by winds, each gust tearing petals, the love would give. I’ve said so little, winnowed, tugging at oxen; a face in its voice, a man took to his plough, he kept looking back: disqualified. And if by instinct, it can’t be by promise, a world of familiar spirits. At home with one, like a decade afar from another. Ruins on high. Dungeons and dreams. To capture a feeling; to sail across waves; to imagine a descendant of gods; if to suffer fame, worried it dies out, tired of what he worked hard to achieve. I’ve said so little, baptized neatly, while it drifts, accessioned in eyes, to hope to believe in vows; begging against remedy, following instincts, at memories causing sensation—the cloud that cried, the sky that wailed, the vision chopped in halves; such skin wires, to have sinned against time, something shifted on that last round; to need a part of something eschewed; to gather a piece of gemstone; so much clutter, so much debris, and I would sit in midst of those with auras; a casual pain, a treading arc, such limestone deserts. It was life in us. It was treasures in miseries. With tales and rumors seeping into de ja vu. It will end one day—with darkness subsuming its prey; in returning to those made of spirit.
I was sensitive to life, oak scribbling, bled into chaos. And it’s been a long time in deliberation. I, however, continue to muse upon destinies and language. In saying little, a phrase jumps out, as upon a thump, to wonder why one would hassle with one made reprobate—in keeping company, makes one ask questions: isn’t life in motion? Not to sound unappreciative. A cave in his mind; an elephant in her psyche; in hells, where it’s unpleasing, neither can quite attend to it; just antagonizing, striking at weakness, becoming in parts what remains uncaptured: tussling with mind tassels—listening in meter, such thetic arts, praising and debating what’s praised. By tender touch, made confused, trying to live existence—those walls collapsing, to erect a dungeon, at self in private; equipped for neglect, preferring anger, at one made oblivious to new personas.
An explosive riff, as vowing to disgust, fighting against goodness, proud to live unvoiced loudness. Pure speculation. Preserved endlessness.
