I revisit illusion to see clarity, upon ironic paradox. Would entice through esoteria, a soul begging the question: What is reality? I was thrown into cadence, standing where invisibility erupted, an elderly woman asked: “Are you alright?” Winds into valleys. Death to each, as we fight for immortality. Such metric melody. A soul will reminisce … —through drums, bass lines, tribal alertness, currency waves … to believe in affectation, emoted from depth those wells, phantom of ambrosia; in becoming christic ink the oceans filled by zenic archery, a man to his enlightenment, pains to their arts—to have adored with such little information: by gentility, by grave, by cemetery plots and passions; fleshed out, listening to gait, debating disclosure, all of a human’s being. I revisit illusion to sense understanding—forsook to koans, trying to decode antiquity—longer into nights as upon a thought—seated in numen, a place in minds, a galaxy we attempt to control. I woo some part of delusion. I sing by silence. Such surreal ambition, collar of one’s spirit, gown of one’s holiness, feathered wings, regathered essence. I do weep the damages to character, faced by cryptic morals—something telling a soul he is with penalty—ache of those moments, tower of sails, across seas to conquer, pleading religiosity, to chance upon one, to cherish unsuspectingly.
