The stream is unlikely—to locate fevers, to catch eternity. Oh’ weeping willow, charmed we may presume, alive before it ruined; by southern winds, by hallow valleys, some with flutes, others with violins. I could sing to skies, sullen at a distance, aware time never sits—as moving, as instrumental, as a caveat to humanity. I feel like remedies, akin to destruction, such mellifluous silence—disputed dialing, to remeasure perception, the keys we piano inside. A daily checking in, a melic beat, perfected over a hundred years; sound seeming tyrannical, lights churning, to stand in Awe. Those soundless seconds, awakened by susurrous sounding, a little perturbed by insistence; if to adore observation, as it merged with sacredness, to imagine sages before incrementation. Fretting incarnation, fretting the deep sleep, amazed by consciousness; dreams we may sell, enchantments we may dial, brains keep messages. To have power over a thought, to walk into a room, so great the insentience. A numbing to life, a conviction in turn, playing drums with one’s brains. Such dear accountability, the dreaded nap, silence can’t last forever. Dearest murmuring, long distance inducements, California uncertainty; to ride a camel, by needle of skies, by walls higher inside—those strumming doctors, pace of a machine, instincts of wildness; a captured feeling, fret & farm, trying to meet life where it began—attempting to become incipience, running into justice, found weaving by the gates.
