It requires more time to chase flame. Slightness might encourage wolves. Deeper into mid-brains, such effusion, pouring into hemispheres. I measured letters, holy upon its curse, blessed in its surrendering. At core such tender essence, substance into existence, charmed it provoked you. Those nights between poems, one still in effect, motion of one’s fusion. It requires slowness of gestures, each symbol to its chamber, proud to have behaved neatly. I can’t pursue favor. It’s not an option. What we find is Spirit is rare in humans. What we believe in—is best in Spirit. Penalized for infallibility. Terrorized for faith. I sit in a daze, carved out of a curtain, playing an insouciant game. Such classical arms, legs touching fears, running to a deficit—most will debate it in passing. Those future days, reading skies, affected by innocent sails. If to summons eternity, by chance through fate, kismet chasing, closing in. To say Spirit, a private language, becomes universal adherence. Radical fiats, dreams in incognito, feelings made cyan. Last as made first, lost then discovery, out of Adullam upon freedoms. Endearing moments—anxiety of coyotes, if one vision, if one perfection. Three mist, one substance, while oneness probes humanity. Certainty of faith, uncertainty of cloudberries, a soul will strive through non-existence.
