Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunderstood—raising an eyebrow, trying to effect perception. In seeing accuracy, a person strives for accuracy. In hearing articulation, a student desires to become a professor—of words, dreams, ambition and scars. We find another pleat, held in sciences, matters are confounded and days are incognito; humans are appearing to themselves. Nonetheless, it’s done to engender responses, as it ought to be for clarity; phantom of dreams, visions of mid-skies. Life is complicated by ether thoughts. Something needed confuses and becomes obsession. Nevertheless, it’s done for an audience, for a response—Is this accurate? Each light, each angle, a person leaves self – open to disappointment. Nevermore an assertion, rather, a need—if to stray from it, to touch by core—a person’s potentiality. Each presentation is for an audience; to paint ceilings, to adorn dens, to fluff pillows. Measuring verse. Aching authenticity. Remembering words—pursuing clarity, with an affection for mystery. With still a need, if to change it, to become enamored by art for its expression. Much a challenge for a person’s ego; a supernova, unwatched constellations, a neglected testimony.   

Endless Trails

 

It took anxiety to utter affection; soundness by decision, to wander into a soul, to knit excellence; vow of one heart, love as cushion, erecting a powerful ark. With tomorrow unpromised, holding to one gaze, life of one spirit, courage to feel vulnerable. By mystic enchantments, gentle chants, dying in one’s resurrection, living through one’s deaths; farmer of a garden, seals in Revelation, doing all to sustain it, doing more to unveil it; walking catacombs, reading petroglyphs, unseen inside, mythic and metaphysical. Seeking something spectacular; in hearing snippets drop—tension availing, an undercurrent of hostility, a soul becomes enamored; something about friction, frustration, feral hormones; conscious dreams, casual daggers, cordial dungeons. A soul would adore, for it needed life, an illusion becomes a force, a curse becomes a dream; a bitterness to it, perceived as sweetness, if to arrange one’s circumstances. With needing comes a component—to desire comes an affection, to worship comes an obsession. True benthic infatuation; electrified galvanization; when a socket charges a memory—we seem to feel possessed. A language fettered. A heart filled with chainsaws. One enormous undertaking. To understand forces, as driven from wells, to determine properties, to silence violins.   

Love Seems Immortal

 

 

I sense in demure a woman wiser than many. A man is set to believe best as wills itself. Anxiety of my cross. Walk of my life; anguished by beauty, crazed over suffering. I sense in demure a woman seized by life, managing multifaceted mansions. Unlike many, maintaining ties, surfing tides, an upsurge of realities. (A little freshet at times. We bring it back.) Honor of a soul’s grave. Magnet of a spirit’s brains. Fire of my flame; life of my deaths. So many moths! I stand in admiration, amazed by anomaly, such goodness inside, chasing sunshine. Such heaviness, heaving up a future, so furtive inside, with getting closer, with touching spice, one feels like running. It’s too much; daylight is seldom sweet, nightfall is seldom safe: mirror of ponds, lakes of injustice, as for love, it seems shaky at points; so much beauty in danger, so secure those thirty minutes, so intimate those few numen skies. I sense in demure a longer process, best of a furnace, kiln of chi, chiseled to precision: life is war! I sew. You sew. We dance. Arts are invisible. At a given second, deep darkness, grappling with sunbeams, trying to see clearly. I notice an understanding of decorum, deeper receptivity, a radiant smile, a weeping to it all, imperceptible to its reality. Such a wrecking ball, pushing fragments, diligent to keep it all by treasures.

Sky calligraphy, excellent pressure. Trying to hear life, mental elements, accustomed to uncertainty, asking Fate for guidance. Love sees further, part avoiding repetition; having given a lung, having passed away, still solid, given all to endure. (That’s fire, skyscraping, soaring, a little sad, looking at a nonending component. I felt fey. I thought to you. I paused. Most of a dungeon key; rapid motion, a vow meant so much, those years during youth. Wanting to believe, swayed against cogent thoughts; sold a soul, asked for a retake, denied and forced to live it out.) A jagged road, palming gravel, feeling reality, writing a thesis. Looking to balance out before clouds fall. And Love analyzes; might do on a moment’s notice, might wait until seas dry.      

Slipping Away

 

Miles until completion. Rivers bypassed. Oceans dwelled in. Explosive pains, such differing creeds. Too much time suffers; by candlelight and scar.  Knowing what you give, I wonder of how much it aches. That deeper region, explored by one giant; curve of one’s disasters, life of one’s dreams.  Don’t let us fool you, our need is damn near critical.  More literature. More mistakes. More repentance. And it would if it mattered, so occasioned by screams. New America, old roots, as we live one tear to soil.  Baffled creatures, filled with needs, an anchor confusing us: spirit of my sanity, days of my years.  One would be amazed by it all, to realize in passing, critical magnifiers.  Ancient seas, one pursuit, one focus, if to make heaven before hell. And a decent tale, as told to souls, one seeking his visions.  In running deeper, defused in parts, wondering what life pushes out of us; soul of my soul, ink of my spirit. So many miles until completion. Such camouflage. With trying to suspect you. Flame of my afflatus. Palms full of symbolism. Angst by fever. So far into history. So confusing. Much taken for granted, more upon a breeze: depth of suspicion, rising lakes. Blamed until blindness. So easy to efface our parts. So many kilometers, so many false nooks, to sit in fluids—damn near abandoned.       

Some Folks We Do Not Forget

 

 

Bone and gristle; marrow and wine. I gave until it churned. So much for ought; such pearls for souls, a new name. And remembering great embarrassment, near a filthy lake, conversing with a platypus. Love is hurting, finding good in pain, frozen, an iceberg, made warm, such losing identity. I skip differences. I never get lost in it. I used to sell self dreams. To ignore skies, to purchase emeralds, sudden to stumble upon rhinestones. Such white golden eyes; only love, we assert; beneficial wrath, a ghost at it, no one quite knows. I appeared, tatted, listening, speaking, said something unique, and it meant truth.  By battle to upsurge and sing, sour at times, wondering lately—reality has a compass to it. To imagine life stops at chi; certain dissatisfying satisfaction. So oxymoronic: think it through. Upon a sketching, crocheted clouds, freefalling miles high, upon a presence, had to expose it.  From bottom rung, rinsed repeatedly, baptized as a testimony; never met her, some glimpse, giving all to buff it out.  Back to Father; both wrong, I just hold a different identity. So infallible, so discarded, standing in rain, a chuckle from depth the island. It will never be what dwells deeper, too many hurdles.  I could try harder, upon a lotus, moving self until it burns. Soul of my soul. Art of her castle.    

Split Photographs

 

 

With given a lasting voice, dying to live, gathering berries, flooding winepresses. Once to feel it, gates to conceal it, threshed or winnowed—core warring, needing family. So many elements against us, we must have something to give. It went from temperamental to intermediate to eternal. Kindness fought the fight, incurred damages, like a spine of needles. The lasting bets, poolhall karma, so many afflicted by rites.  Loving was hard. One whisper; one kiss. If a claim is impossible—no one will believe it. Such topical exaggeration; we might entertain it. Just something to it.  With given a lasting voice, dying to live, gathering wounds, flooding God’s ear.  It goes ballistic. Such bombastic cries. If one knew—I bet one would say something.  Ghana skies—trying to enjoy November, paid a price, intimate with loss. Once to feel it, unknit a little, trying to locate substance, something to grip to, traveling atmosphere.  And it meant so much, to become so minimum—a jet mentality, a jutted ambition, the few of the last ghosts; rolling dice, each day, trying to define sanity—its demarcations, its body, what in hell does it mean? One might giggle, once it comes, same wrestling, same activity. Only if it all meant nothing. Only if one could walkaway from it. Like a big joke—until one is in a den, knees bent, wailing in silence. Groping walls, squinting at gnats, a long day, a wrong greeting, it changes the dynamics forever.    

Zinfandel

 

 

Nobody loves like essence. Such gothic lights, mystic wolves. (Unarmed, they say, face to heaven, disputing one tear.) To suckle cloudberries. To sickle inactivity. Waiting out something unending. Only by feelers, jousting as we do, feuding myself; such wounded nemesias, such watchful zinnias, and a tear might feel cathartic. Too much for truths. Too artistic for breath. And one is wheezing, fire of my flame! (It was for essence. It forms pride. Life takes to itself. Reflection of my mirror—by another’s face, wherefore, we dream. And how to forget again, loathing reflection, seething upon winds, stronger in my weakness.)  To a third person, enveloping two others, on a wild trail, nurturing tumbleweed.  If loving is a sin, let Depth repent, a soul does as parents taught.  By excellence in one soul, as to find offense in others. Let fey be gentle. Let summer illuminate demons. A fever along a path, sudden into dilemma—curse of my voice, scream of my silence. And Love never knew for us, a zephyr in its chase, as curious creatures, worrisome upon those gates. To stand and gaze into emptiness, to feel at home, such lousy negotiations. If making it to Father, to ask for clearance, such bolden confidence. In all those complaints, treating humans as phantoms, all Love asked was to feel loved correctly.     

Soul Absorption

 

 

I never (quite) understood instincts, with a need to tame such. I, too, never understood instant absorption. Some elements might be taken for granted; plus, we need not (over) analyze realities. I beg to differ, palming a book on psalms. More than a hobby; trying to decode mirrors, mine, others, found in script. And to adore beyond understanding, applying attributes to spirit-matter. Some are given vulnerability, others learn it.  Everything one will love, all of each challenge.  I never remembered that feeling, now it lives.  Beyond comparison; made into emotion, of its own accord, to take a form, to give life through an illusion. (Such coldness, by warm ice, contagious vice, gloomy joys; accursed to have met, giving all, trauma based, all of what was delivered.) It was uneasiness, staring at an image, seeing traits, preordained to adore, challenged by majesty. A fever in a scratch, a dark light in its expression—those indecisive seconds, trying to reach, falling two palms short. To keep one going, to have done so much—alike to teaching a life lesson. (A lasting message where wisdom is unclear, mind of its mind, soul of its spirit.) Asking for graces. Disputing prudence. Asking for what cannot be absorbed.  (Those with letters, writing postscripts, rereading transcripts.) Artisan souls, cavalier over last rites. And one dream!     

Cosmic Forests

 

With each key the universe is somber; sourced in excellence, dying in surviving. I never wished for it. I thought to the onus of it. Such pure responsibility for fate, if such might be asserted (learned or environmental and all). I make no excuses. I just reason something is askew. A man will come to himself, hopefully, early in life. He will see the horizon, create his letters, and seek his joys; all in becoming a falcon, in understanding the phoenix, flaming into a firebird—wings length’d with eagles, soaring by precision like hawks, to have chased, to have seized, to have captured woes. A soul is indebted to Wisdom—in knowing where such dwells, in courting winds so long—part of seeking is crocheting embarrassment, neat humiliation. Those mountains tell a story; the feminine forces speak to years in exile; a woman to her masteries, to have sat with kings, to have dined with princes. Soul of my soul; Spirit of my spirit.  A voice echoes into hemispheres, such melodious femininity.  Mind of my mind—season of mongooses.  Upon a dandelion, into cosmic chi, to have presence in Wisdom; such tender visitation, certain paradox, to churning frustration, penalized for adoration. To sense something greater taking place: attic cathedrals, vatic chalice, magnet mesmerism.  With each key the universe is somber; purely melancholic wilderness, heaping happiness, tears for something seeming tragic.  

Life Is So Much More

 

 

An ancient soul, surrounded by souls, and a lasting séance. I catch chills in discussing it. (We live metaphysics in private.) Where no one can see. (I was amazed by her prowess, stunned by her silence, part displeased by nonchalance.) Days are with admiring others, sensing hard work. By grace to have lived. By religion to have repented. By temple or church to have surrendered. Old ancient souls, knitting skies, filled with intermittence, alighting epiphanies—to have believed so credulously—indeed, to have become withdrawn from such mind behavior. Faith never meant so much—as when all was in battle: life where it feels estranged; belief where it’s under fire; minds made of aluminum, facing cold reverberation.  To sudden into song, warring an olden spirit; part cured, clear, editing real life dreams.  We might not see it. We might harness nebulosity. Something opaque might destroy us. We can’t fathom souls living otherwise—having life, fraught by good deeds, in realizing—days are filled with activities—such become living.  Another crease, a thin crevice, some pursuing mind spirits, trying to unravel a glint, if to breathe by light, by winds. Soul of my soul; Spirit of a deep discussion; Breath of cosmic force. What many of us see seems unrelated to life.