Mind Wave

 

 

Freedom through its nervousness—an internal clock, known to operate subliminally; alike to sentences and strange islands the gift was imperceptible; an audience knew and they paraded leakage the parable of beauty, an ache in paradoxes, flushed with obsessions—an author to his mind. So familiar, at 70 mph, an intimate freeway, too actual, too determined, so, one might call fey for a favor, wondering to self some type of ownership. In shifting by imperfection, knowing it isn’t enough, we see waterfalls, we admire Picasso, we even visit a temple—walking through memories, taking a glance, stepping into malaise, somber upon a blessing, chuckling with a friend. Pure resistance draws frequencies near; in desiring by essence, fragile into debates, sensing futility. It can’t all be tragic—we make magic, right? An existential glitch; seeing change in beliefs, lost souls, temperaments, genetic designs; life of my life, with much waning. Such a rebel. And so offended by politics. It can’t be all horrible, and it defies being all goodness. Freedom through its unevenness—some type of riddle, in exercising it, one loses it—an unfair exchange of vines. Most radical tangibility inside, sore metaphysical, mind shadows, glimpses, it seemed important. In racing back and forth, alike to gothic forces, to have felt inclined to utter confusions.  

Secular Collars

 

 

Keep daylight in soul, in spite of muddy regions. A man to his determinants, while he lives. And Love is a keepsake, so undermined. Through valleys, ravines, looking at skies, conversing with ravens. I saw a scarecrow get up and drink water. I heard a voiceless man scream in his desert. So deserted, so curious, most of us are concerned, too many reasons to resist. A drawer of moths, a polished cross, an old letter from war days—sewing as we do, peppered with disbeliefs, wondering 

 

why it’s so natural—such dispossession, certain disquietude, facing ups and downs. It all seems organic, making it lethal, if generic, one could offset it—mesmerizing malaise, disheartened, declawed at times—to need with utter fierceness, to fight like dying, at its all—realizing, it’s a gamble. Trekking marshweed, traipsing upon a tightrope, holding principles, so steep in souls, to imagine living and finding life in unsaid principles. Never go lazy on one’s maxims; many will 

 

utter resistance through turbidity, looking for something static, charged by pursuits, last of a tender beginning. By orangeness of it all, at a yellow light, taking in a deep gulp of existence, understanding humans are addictive. Upon high are starlings; low in fields are meerkats; afar are drongos. Nature takes her course, so unrelenting, never questioned, we apply our thoughts. So, accepting, so passive, thwart at moments, kneeling near garden departure.          

Just

 

 

Just needing to break free—of patterns—of repetition; just needing to believe as fledglings, just keeping company. Just because life is uneven, horns and music, pulpits and dreams, if to conquer existence. Just for a moment; just because it feels right; just blues, jazz, devastation, trying to recharge. Just a few remarks, just on one occasion. Fireplace passions, not so fair, a slightness to it all, to welcome it just because. Fierce beginnings. Partway sacrificed. They never knew it would hurt us. They tried. To have one engaging just because. Tragic comforts. Such burning embers—to pull a soul out of self, each scent a scenery. Just in case it never envisions, left to travels with hopes; trying to work it out, trying to make it right, so involved with what let’s go—just because—in making armor, in knitting excellence, just enough to pine forever. Prose as travesty. Adulthood as unmeasured. Childhood as traumatic. Just the music. Just angst. Just meeting for the first time. Just hope. Just healing. Just a vision in a dream. Just partly bypassed. If holding or flirting with flame; if believing against reality; if mind closure is of issue—such cadence, eventual chaos, just seeking credence. So indirect; a soul left to wish as he chooses. And life is so short—finding reason to disregard flickers; soul of spirits, just in case, getting exhaustion mixed with pash. Just because pains are insistent, to sense if it makes rhythm, occasioned to perish—if one paw print.  More to independent loneliness, to accept certain rites, to live unfulfilled, chasing one art, such wonderful and pained laughter—just because the winds are swarming, those cages are opening, and thieves have left the temple—just in case souls were musing, just in case it might resonate.  

Walking Horizon

 

 

With needing ink, with weeping ink, ever encompassing, ever enchanting. I was lost in a time warp. It never seems polite. Too many decisions to make: either subsumed or strategic. One will travel where you’ve been; one will feel estranged, convoluted, unenthused. Life will take on a texture: it could go sour. So much limited time. Once upon creation, neat joys, uniformed happiness, a pleasure to life.  We learned disquietude; private internality, discomfort and winds; so much tends to weigh in the balance, attempting to decode behavior, knowing in part, souls are disenchanted. Indeed. How to gauge accountability?  Longer roads. Pavement stepping.  That trail I took. I warn the unsuspecting soul—a deal of bad nerves.  Colder moments, nonetheless. To glance into a person, to catch a glimpse. If to see in parts, forming a puzzle, missing key pieces. The fire you bring, dungeon equipped, managing a genuine smile; flame of its flicker, courage to adore, never ending endeavors.  I was lost in a fantasy, aging with lights, eager to make life of a situation.  I see by moon-arts, feeling earthquakes, a sickle to interior, solace still arriving. And loving is steep, trying to become all one desires, the insecurity of the fact. Many say—we worry too much, go with the flow, well—the flow is constructed, it doesn’t just make for perfection.   

Spoiled Rain

 

 

Love was genius; weeping low, trespassing, I wonder what God adheres to. Rawness. Back at it, thrown into it, the laws emote. The empire, Jesus, threshed in tender rain, taking portions of the soul. To partake of pains, to watch something you love, to see it killing life. (Too understanding.) It becomes nightfall, during bright and desperate skies, a child kept praying, how did he keep faith? In truth, its damaged; and two adore like coyotes, so many crevices on dice—arguing over a fever. They never included me. I was deeper into it. Angered over swag. Knees to carpet; many will seek solace. What if nothing soothes it—just pacification? To find it intensifies; a lowness becoming natural—in its absence, like hell broke loose. Like a pit at it, gila monster angst, laughing in pain. Big smiles, desperate to believe it, a short trip to graves—lost on wings, another hundred, a neat grimace, a wild bottle of sin. I never asked for a monopoly on it. If it’s mine, I need not ask. So many indecent games, I make quickness to congratulate those most important to her. And Love keeps a space for us, to be what I lean into. Beyond a lease. I keep to guts, kneeling at a temple, part of a legacy, proud to have spirit resurrection. It was never as I saw it. It was ever on a different level. So close to religiosity, throttled by spirits, watching how close it gets.     

War Wounds

 

 

War wounds, sky breakage. To work like oxen, rereading Love, nauseated, focused on condition. Something like forces, I suppose. One bet on weather, palming a tsunami, filled with terrible angst, one pill, they say. Needing advice. Fretting the grandness of loses. A little apologetic about it all. It has to be that way for sanity’s sake. 

To get it right, a tremendous feat—it’s what we’re fighting for, excellence, at all costs.

 

            Such pedigree. Seven baguettes. Righteous flame. 

Can’t enjoy for rich worry—skating shivers, dark chills, and life is first beautified. It reasons why disillusion churns a soul. Such upheaval!  Wealthy resistance. Early graves. I position to believe life is different for differing ranks.

 

            Life keeps souls reaching. And Love is an inscrutable property.  It makes little sense. It engulfs souls. It feels with passion.

War wounds, sky breakage. Such a journey for sojourners of chaos.  Life makes for courage, adrift in mountains, trying to touch artifacts, one gift!

            In it to win, stumbling at pit holes, extracting shrapnel from flesh. 

Voiceprinted

 

 

By dear anxiety—launched from within, knowing for presence what’s proven by experience. And loving you was exciting, sheer joy, passion made unescapable, with wilderness nearby. We were fledglings ignited like engines, revving by arts, weeping through bright, glorious laughter. Ever in awe. Longing for progeny. Furious by the absence of engulfment, sentiments and scales.  A man to his bravado; a woman to her pride—to imagine where souls go astray?  In adoring forever, as loving winds, such reaching tentacles.  Fire by a welkin flame; tender remorse; encouraged to breathe once more.  Tears made into lakes; same water used for baptism; with time slipping into darkness.  To cherish parts unseen, meshing with uncertainty, put to rest—such cadent eyes.  By recognition to have sung by grace. In loving features, souls connected like seas.  And a man will either lose or win himself, stirred into ecstasy, lavish into his wounds. With surging into you, reminiscent of attraction—exonerated through falsehood.  While craving you, a soul couldn’t see lights, on autopilot—mesmerized, enchanted by mythos. Such a delicate mixture, unreality + concrete fever. To unsee rapturous darkness—sung sweetly. Voiceprinted. Steep pressures. In never quite balanced, treasuring romance, spoiled by first experiences.  

Fighting Realities

 

 

Running out of time, a lonely grind, some may visit, however. Trying to seize life, agitated by life, threshed inside, fields. I received pieces of self; I listen to her laughter; it makes a woman aesthetic. Nevertheless, falling into a vacuum, source of endings, thrown into faith. Some needed it. Some selected it. Many begged for it. So morose. So fortunate. Holding against sandpaper, passive enough to be aggressive. I heard a sentence. I kept it to heart. It starts to matter. When saying otherwise. It was this month. I took to silly water. I reminisce on us. Most of us are keeping forward, holding memories. Such prudence; treating dreams like investments. It was intense; ever the measure of ghosts. (I’ll tell a tale of spirit entering muscles, and everyone says, “The poet has gone mad.”) I wish Love wellness, a gift in skies. And Love was quick-witted; we looked, we courted winds, we tended to our lives. It’s amazing how one can testify, hampered by pillows, holding life for her worth. Such twisting inside, so existential, to love more than most, to attest to waning at points. And Love will never know such value, top three, upon a lasting message, and adoring came with time. They remember many savants, gifted, lacking, reaching. It must first make sense. Too many daydreams. Many poets are wrestling, nay, fighting realities.      

All are Braving the Future

 

 

If I may tell it, sore disquieted, greeting memories. Such soul-iniquity, grinding through havens, begging those last three dimensions.  Lord! Enough said.  They extracted what they could, upon sickbeds. And Love is too wise to deceive. We wonder if such is deliberate. Giving it all! They ask if souls are living, as opposed to existing.  Mango cigars. Strawberry gins.  If to ask a deeper question, unrelated to sensuality, to wonder—will I see heaven?  Such a monopoly in dungeons; unseen tears; walking, writhing, maybe a fork splits literature.  (It’s an oddity of feelings; one intends intentions; each moment pushes its presence, itching nearby, if one word to sooth it, I’ve lost all my words.)  Sunshine in a gifted miracle, one smile to see completion, one sin against all I lived for, bled of spirit, dining on what would be; never as it is, while it still appears, losing sight, thrust through by a spear.  What has been done, as it shivers, each kiss is a lance, never realized she hated us.  Moonlit. To live out some fantasy, to never divulge understanding, and I can’t ignore it.  We’ve come to a point where God must be defined, if to speak godspeed. Where adoring is qualified by aching, upon an unredeemed island, such wild calmness, and in reality, the poet lost the war.  I wouldn’t utter a word, wandering bridges, a thousand years out, and God was found to be nonfiction. Losing stability, walking up-straight, only a few made privy, only one knew.      

Worn Senses

 

 

Let the gift be faith. Many at war. We emphasize it. Many ask, why? How it feels to own promise. A man chides his understanding, realizing where he stands, each shift is a celebration of sanity. (With watching comes questions, ease of Love’s rain, one last trace trying its future.) In knowing grief, one knows joy, comparing and contrasting the two. 

 

I might put every suggestion in a hat, so unfair to assess us, full on over there, such sullen silence. I expected misfires, with creatures wafting afar, accustomed to eternal chastisement. Some can’t change—be it goodness or badness. Personality is static. 

 

Pulled into orbit, negotiating with motivation, they call us ambitious. 

 

When it feels like coal, resonates with soot, and grinds one into fiberglass, we call it love. Such aspiration. Damn near irrational. I leave alone those cisterns. I come back to where they dropped me off at. If to lose breath, to flicker into flame, to surrender to imperfection. Such testimony. Healing for the big show. Too disappointed or too infatuated or destined for ambivalence. The pain is this: one loses years, and gets pieces of wisdom. Time is delicate, souls are wasting increments of existence.

 

By graces—faced by faith, for many it’s Moses, for many it’s Yeshua. Vouchsafing. Many mistakes. Holding the torch, running through a storm, trying to warn the community.   

Empty Space

 

 

I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of energies. Such interwoven moods, a series of underpinnings. A different type of reality, another form of guessing. So much earth, required participants, principles discussed, certainty in an uncertain land. Part censored to begin with, winnowed like wheat, much held in vibrations. So spatial, incomplete pieces, placing fragments in order, alike to puzzles. One says: “It’s untimely.” Indeed. We work the parts, piecemealing horizons, offering the best one has to suggest. 

Alike to academia: the best one can offer.

We debate secular matters. We build off of exegetical regions.  (In goodness, one will greet us. In response, something will register, as best as reflected.) A soul of its persistence, gathered by its understanding, days of an inner kayak, mind of its covenants. As radical creatures, discerning through fragments, part plumbed in paradox, trying to vet components—in making maxims. 

            I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of being human. Many souls, differing temperaments—running a risk of one perspective: we speak to groups; it becomes polemic. We might entertain truths, held sacred to hearts: spirit of his mind, soul of his cave. To gaze off into components, to have gifts, to wrestle with critical spaces.       

Choosing Symbols

 

 

To speak of spirit is speculation, albeit, a symbol, filled with meaning and designation. In my hunger for the symbol, in my thirst for immortality, I die partway, forbidden my greatest craving. (The present warfare has been long. I wonder what I’m telling myself to get through it.) Hitherto, I try to imagine a person’s wound. In realizing my own, I know souls carry existentialism. We leave alone what probes us the most. Such inclusiveness, as opposed to exclusivity, amazed by the horizon. I see an impasse—in rationalizing, I sense it loses its opalescence. I find, at some point, we intentionally do x, or we expectantly do y. We’re often let off the hook. Life is confusing that way. After a while, new titles slip into consciousness—the way each learns to live. (A man ostracized his son. Years later, his son was doing well. The father sought the son out. The son desired a father. And was willing to assist the father financially. The father wasn’t merely pleased by that, he had to deplete the son of his pride. He berated the son. The son tried harder. Neither quite could see what was taking place. This happens, time and again.) In understanding spirit, we see competing end points, a village of acts upon a spectrum, never quite with certainty—a long held dispute. We try to tie knots of clarity. In feeling a certain way. Wondering why it moves this way. To fathom parts and miss chunks. It’s either too much, or it represents life, the norms.  I shift perspectives, listening to gripes, suffocated in parts by philosophy.  Just watched by spirit. Just read by spirit. In what it symbolizes. In pure speculation.  Life is peculiar when freedoms are denied.  I imagine freedom of spirit, independence of spirit, even able to include others by spirit.  (One qualm comes with knowing how spirit entered, a cozen entrance; to then empathize with spirit, a quiet oddity of souls; each observation comes with struggle—it’s quite mysterious how it all operates—one undergoes an analysis of spirits … something suspect … albeit, a form of dialogue.  Each person lives in a box: sharing boxes, trying to break free of boxes: quite possibly—centered in perception … which denies full on accountability in all the negotiations with spirit.)  I go through self-talk, attempting to see exactly as things are, as opposed to listening to my feelings. I fail each time, getting closer, finding a necessity to pardon acts—for the sake of balancing out inside. People, self – included, we’re strict with ourselves, while having a time with holding ourselves accountable. It’s troubling on one hand, we never let up on ourselves, on the other hand, we’re too quick to dismiss our certain faults. Spirit is unique in this sense, some pains are with us, others, by our initiatives, are bypassed.  I try to see, thus, to feel, even when end points are inordinate. This, too, surprises at times.  And we seem to operate off cues. Some induced by others, many seduced by an interior mirror. We also mourn the living. We mourn our thoughts. This is spirit. It gravitates towards mourning. What seems too powerful to carry, the soul attempts to discard, often unaware of the subconscious.  I select mythos, spirit-fire, even though it’s speculation. Spirit gives life.  Last in line. First given to sacrifice. Tales were told. We call fables comfort food. In fact, those rare creatures were destined to think differently. The penultimate distinction is seen in responses. It doesn’t explain why some are mourning their responsibility and others aren’t. The ideal calls deviation a behavioral malfunction. The ideal is often unsubstantiated; it just seems better than other options. Spirit determines its necessities. Spirit lives contrition.                

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

 

 

It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by lusts, innocent desire, naïve desire. Light forms in each life. Darkness dissipates at moments, only to return. In seeing like others, it churns. In being self, I realize I’m unfree. Still lascivious, with banshee cravings, disputing a halo, a scar, a tint of falsities. It rarely falls as it should; even then, some part is missing. Love travels a portal, morals are placed neatly, what we ought to do takes precedence, with space to see humanity, as one longs for clarity, one sees into horizons; and it was fire to alarm us, such facial glitter, knowing it all started with flame. Souls kept looking outwardly, probed internally, missing what some kept as a riddle, so casually to announce life. Now souls smoke hookahs, debate what’s written, wearing tunics, asking permission to speak. Prose has a mind of its own. It tells a story. It desires lusts. It dreams of polite silence, to adore—to live by joys, with a somber aftertaste. Through years, watching an inner person, best of oneself, still unclear, failing to try, longing into a breeze. Prose would have a soul confessing love, pleading for orisons, made a mantis, begging for punishment. Sweet charms, deadly spirits, to be with antennas high, defenses low, to believe in others again.   

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.