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.
