In thinking about origins, fever of skies. I would sense some article, never fully aware of sky drops. Everything seems to reveal too much. Alike to reading scripture, eyes must be opened. Such a sullen and silent discussion. I see in thoughts a mystery in grays. Such have
arête; such deal in virtues. So cursed in its blessing: just endure. The battle was within. It leaked out. A simple apology is insufficient. The fever; that’s indicative of shamans, and/or, a condition. Upon a great battle, partway consumed, realizing humans have something delicate guiding us—
needing excellence, needing courage, requiring passions. (Not much will be affirmed, buried in a grave, all before me, if lucky, will become archives.) And a soul is privy, he concerns self with thoughts, proud or for classifications? In thinking about origins, flame as in blueness, fire
as in redness—to exist one’s exegetical, most religious cries, imperceptible eyes. No matter an island, through works, to place a fleece upon a heart; marble tablets, fleshly ordinances, mystic acoustics. To stumble into a spell, to fly in spirit, such ancestors as Ezekiel—and Dear Elijah the
gates flung open, the child was healed, the mother believed. So much closer to epiphany, so much further from clarity, moving as soul dictates—I imagine something impish, laughing and carrying on, placing souls in life wailing situations. And I kneel, threshed, remaining still.
