We dispute it and dispel it. We select it and secure it. I speak of passion. And I was with a feeling, while it sails my synaptic gap. Life builds, and life destroys. Said of all elements, I suppose. With souls getting closer. With spirits provoking one another. I imagine self-preservation, too many mishaps. A soul says: “I’m not nearly what I could become.” Some feelings are full of futility; some stick without rationale; and others feel right on time. A mind will languish, it will become somber, yearning in its nature. I find a person is seeking happiness, concerned about its definition. I see it shifting—an image is forming—we put too much on each other. In desire, one needs to feel desired; in giving love, one needs to receive love. One is willing to soar, another is willing to sing, both are firebirds. And a soul will pine for mystery, long for esoteria, with signs seeming confusing. The night falls, the sun rises, souls are tugged, fraught by necessities. In those days, I’d cleave to the moon, ride the stars, asking and negotiating; something gives up resilience, something blocks out the mystery. To sense a sort of heaviness, to chase to alleviate it, or settled into it, a sort of need for it. Life will unravel at points, and life will close up shop at times. Surely, the writer has said familiar things.
