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.
