The hue is in the bone. The color is purple. In the far distance—sounds a teakettle, a jackhammer, all imaginary. Such surreal properties, neither left nor right, near a narrow road, face down, missing opalescence. By resplendent charms, terrific gestures, arcane weather. To have, is to hold; to cherish is to manifest. It’s ever in chorus. It towers in choir. He was never wise. She gave him his name. Another derides him, chides him. The love of the scar; the torch between opposites. To have loved in absence of itself. Ethereal embodiment. If to soar, to become rockets, so many dreams, between caricatures. The focal points are enticing. The bishops still repent. The nuns still mourn. To pour oneself into spheres, pure liquidity. To have won fair heart. To have learned fair weather. To have loved despite the volcano. Neat, tidy innocence; or it matters not; if one is willing—it takes a great tugging.
Such wayward beginnings.
In the search, upon a trampoline, one last leap—sensing halos, if to fathom, born to become intuition.
Such California oxygen, paradoxical winds. To see what’s sensed; such inner webbing, reknitting latchets. It always seems closer to going home; born to that degree. Deep sable eyes; blue oceans; hazel sunbeams, and green lanterns.
