Like a rushing river—to baptize a heart, never knowing full intention. One presumes good thoughts, seraphic arts, cherub reigns. One is wondering about pain; others are sensing healing. By magnitude of deserts, by rhythmic skies, such serenading volcanoes. It came to me, some notion, at some degree, souls are searching for a compatible friend. Such are immutable laws. To feel understood—to know one is alive in union. One grabs a marker, the mind is a landmark, Love is scribbling frantically, most of us see deaths coming. If but a voice, by far a hand, if carried into the storm. To come apart, cultic, gracefully, trying to get youth back. With might; divested of transgression; thoughts cleaving to orientation—such as man is confused. Like a rushing river—to rinse bodies, still fretting filth, looking sad, defeating inclination, baffled by violet roses. If to know for times, to stand accused, such foot prints in tears. Upon raindrops; upon a glacier; we reminisce often on good times. Some measure of it, to find souls chasing, some measure of it is good. Through valleys, appalled by fears, to have awakened by flower to some soul. Treasured wilderness, a final bedding, to obtain in spirit, one last measure. To lay heads upon cellos, one thin line, giving to fever, falling into memories.
