A precious decline. Those rooms with pressure. Those emphatic ceilings. Oh’ Dear Lament, value subtracted, persistence withering: I remember long lines. Ever distracted. Intensity has passion chasing it. Each word can hurt; each sentence begs a dear question. At each growth comes a departure. It means less than what a mind will conjure up. At moments, surefire relentless; and you’d watch it passing as it lives; certain grayness, surety of heart, reluctant discourse. The muse would muse in return. So many eons; such beige deserts; over a dozen goodbyes. To float through. To give unclarity. To find an endless obsession with tidiness. In determining to ignore it all, self entertains mysteries. More uncanny delights, numinous rites, by grand illumination. Either lights, darkness, or both; either love, nuance, or aspiration. (So much is in there, unlatch the reservoir; so much has resurrected, light the cannon.) In rereading happenstance, in trying to fathom immaterialism, with such grand metaphysics, we walk into fields, dwell with wolves, sleep in uncertainty. Those cadent arcs, as pillars, by esoteric soundness—to fly or fall, to chance an ache, so confused about it all. Opened portals. Pieces of freedom. To know what can’t be certain. In depth the benthic earthquake; aside a headstorm.
