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knitting skies, filled with intermittence, alighting epiphanies—to have believed so credulously—indeed, to have become withdrawn from such mind behavior.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.
