I’ve parts inside, visual conversations, waterfalls. (A love of literature invites a level of morosity.) Life is seen differently. While perusing a manuscript, earth is rumbling, to have placed art high above reality, a keen ailment searching to transcend us. I remember a person speaking about people becoming privy. I suspect an arsenal of symbols by now. I keep waiting for us to disappear. I feel like a youngster in that regard. It never disappears. Some people are carried inside—sheer dialogue with them, to gaze off, to hear parts of each sentence. I’ve few souls—making entrance into light, I neither condone nor am I terribly adverse to it. I suspect authors are riven asunder, parts are in and out of realities.
At times, we meet good people.
Some have a grip on existence.
Often, mirrored reflections. Where do we feel at home?
One has entered the sphere, it’s up and down, makes for temperaments.
Immortalized.
What will life reveal/What will it signify?
Nevertheless, an active spirit webbing sounds, in omission, neither here nor there, expecting nonetheless.
Impressed against the sensorium, wrapped in nerves, to know with certainty, something I’m void of—
should be at peace,
language upon waterfalls.
II
Alike to vulnerable souls, holding it together, laughing with rain seeping out. I admire a few. In wondering, in the accusation, I try to fathom those lakes, those mountains, sheer defined by insecurities. In rushing—it never happened, on a tender foot, it wouldn’t blossom, in taking pace, it’s a hit and miss. I’m at a place where it’s neither affection, love nor disregard.
A hardened shell is confusion. As it needs acceptance, furious trust, to give neither.
We fraught ourselves.
I’m losing appetite. Part ruined; part angelic.
I would find us in the baseline jumping wildly, and a plucked violin, the pangs we’ve paved.
It keeps growing stronger. It has to curtail its countenance.
If it’s possible.
I keep looking at a ruler. I noticed a split: one is adored, the other is loathed. Such sophisticated attacks, I wonder about things unsaid.
III
I seldom capture what seizes interior. (Not quite seeing what an audience sees.) I do more remembering, as opposed to writing it out. Maybe verse is different. And art tells a story, even when absent of a saga. Maybe overt at times. No need in being every author; no need in intriguing every instinct. Being of age and algae, in seeing patterns, tragic innocence, and no one is accounted for it, this has ruined some of us. The hand he worshiped, those dungeons, to reminisce in a rush, to shiver a little, with fury raising her child. I couldn’t when it was needed, to pour out existence, it was my place to participate more than take the lead. I keep asking myself: Is it meant to impress or transcend boundaries? Another reason not to speak utter situation is, no one is mitigating it, rather in a surge with chaos, pleased when it churns spirit. (The author, at least.) In the moment, it neither lives nor dies, it’s just a series of symbols. Love was behind on pieces, ahead in attributes, never quite pleased with affairs and events. Another desired sophistication, furious beauty, to be sheer devastation—with a third vying to be an artist, fraught by humanhood, looking into remedy in a substance; we might have crossed spirits, in crossing paths. And Love feels what I feel, stressing frequencies, in seeing the author had some valley, to have understood said valley, to concentrate on that valley. Maybe the valley is dangerous. Maybe a soul is a soul—to long because we long, neither me nor her, just because it feels estranged—and we say, this is redemption, I need nothing, you this, and you that, soul of my soul, life of my spirit.
