An obsession; searching for splendor. When it isn’t there—deafening silence. Such an examined level, pleats, gold, if ignited. So many miles, watching the manifest, waiting for feelings to rise. Scraping skies or plummeting lows—a slight variance, just here; one could speak to it, part outrageous, part remarkable. It’s too much; going through mazes, looking at shrubberies, upon a rose petal. (Remnants.) An olden spirit, an ancient obsession, seeking splendor, and done unto activation. Over a dozen meanings. To sort through maxims, bitterness acting differently, not much a choice—pitching visions. Into intuition, pyramid eyes, pure determination. So geometric, such beliefs, genius minded, maybe immortalized; at brains, fields of sugarcane, if to see as it is … souls having a time with reality, skating wilderness, falling into dust storms—thrown into deserts. Free us, Lord! It seems intricate. Generational excessiveness: alike to soothsaying: such necromancy. And what souls tolerate drives us into madness. A soul must remedy the impossible—faced by it. So many suppositions. Fraught by jasmine rain. Eating hope. (Nearly. But not yet.) Waiting on features, subtle reminders. So crucial to it all; so exclusive. In all examination, we fret trauma—knowing it’s there. One foot forward. And beauty had a different appeal, all encompassing, never to perish, as nonetheless, wrapped in perception—until the end of time. To fret over rebellion, akin to resistance, some element inside, disputing dreams, affected by usage, each measure, each avalanche, and it remains remarkable.
