What if signs meant melody? In celebration. Life’s joys wane. If knowing all of sunshine meant ecstasy. (We jot down in a journal, we see ourselves, we push the journal aside.) I lived in dark regions, murky mire, marshweed mayflies. (He went too soon.) I imagine final whispers, uncaged sparrows, cherubs and answered dreams.) Loving was difficult at points—we face an impossible challenge, a refuted ideal. It comes out harshly. I must be bitter somewhere in there. The goal for folks is sagehood. To give until it churns. Then to speculate over why such pain is necessary. I sound sarcastic. I mean to get in alignment. I mean to continue the fight. If I might be honest, it’s putting a whooping on the spirit. Each year. One with prudence & faith says, “You’re growing stronger.” I try to hold a straight face. I sound like ultimately core beliefs should be reviewed. Someone was boldly optimistic. Lucre. Research. Progress. Such penchant words for a poet. I’ll ignore my base needs. I’ll be unhappy braving the good night. I’ll placate in order to be at peace. It never mattered. We believe in ideals. They give life. They make meaning. Despite rain, they make for sullen happiness. They ultimately build order. (All will experience lots, some will be freed due to prudence.) I do surmise!
