Mysterium

 

 

It feels like magic. It’s quite scientific. (When a face talks to itself.) And art seems therapeutic, in its angst and anxiety. One masterpiece (a whole existence). Love is ingenious. And I still have affection for skies. We never understood existence; indeed, breath, blues, jazz, and objectivity. Life 

 

has an undercurrent, an undulation, where energy aids in healing and alarming. It still feels mystic in tone, shape, and color. One reads and reflects. Art is public, maybe centered on self, maybe a vague passage to reality, aphorisms that speak and point at wisdom. I can’t help but notice a 

 

property—even vengeance has a need to interact. I never asked for what morphed inside. We concentrate on clarity, ever moved by magic, to sense some have honed prowess. In accepting perspective, one sees in self a flaw; nevertheless, each person must focus on his or her gifts. 

 

Notwithstanding, to have life, to cherish inheritance, to dance by yogic armor, seas of feelings, wondering while envying giants. A wounded soul will have positions on life; sweet metaphysics, axioms challenged, a need for reality in its depth. Such fiats fail. Saddened eyes, unveiling 

 

existence. We gauge responses in discussion, they point us in some direction. It can be numen in its exhilaration. It might generate chi out the depth of melancholy—surfing atmosphere, leaping about portals, part devastated, part affirmed, part delivered.   

Love Dynamic

 

Just a fantast at times. Listening to wants, eager over desires. Different auras, achy contours. Love is a bad ass woman. We take much for granted. And everything is dying. To graves in life, whispering names, breathless, a memory. I was remembering you, seeping into a thought, I imagine two people make perfection of character. Each chair is different. Each arm has limited reach. We accept dearth; we increase yearning. It was laughs at self, to believe I was affected deeply—winning charms, touched in soil, jilted inside, moving through traffic, it’s wrong, but I lit a cigarette. Over a spirit, confined to disasters, loving like chameleons, harlequins off of gin. Indeed, a half-shrug—until it reaches. Love is a bad ass magician. They call it chi; yes, making horderves—to lace life, a man watches. Hands form elasticity, flying with cares, a price as paid—to engender such cost. If only complete staticity, disruptive mornings, asking daft questions, insecurity seeping in. Love has an effect on psyches—all characteristics mastered, easily angered. Never upon eggshells, not her well-beloved. Toe-to-toe at it. And many roses, many tomorrows, lines of prose, scripture at times, wits and realizations. He asks: “Why us?” She looks intently, places her nose on his: “I’d have it no other way.” Closer friends. Closer lovers. Parents and magicians—and it’s all on borrowed time.         

Gentle Observations

 

 

Before it dies it suffers. Before it loves it courts. On rare occasions, one is devastated by beauty. And Love is subtle. I see it. I sense myself. Makes life seductive, an art in color, an opalescent machinery. Curtains before a cross. Baptism on the 8^th day. Better circumcision. But Love is angst and honor; so many years at perfecting yoga, such blight at times. I would need her early on. She would need life. It amazes when dealing with power, they have an appetite, something affective must be part wild like. (I looked at her and adored what I saw. I noticed a sardonic wit, an insecure armor, most provocative, most human.) I retrospect on Love, eagle eyed, filled with determination, desperate for her well-beloved. Citrus and wines. Linchpins and figs. Deep scars and mobile wounds. In adoring Love, sight seen, a man is accustomed to loathing himself, one knee, one pledge. If we knew in totality, we’d sense why melancholy is addictive. Passion of arts. Skyward penmanship. To know her is to feel imbalanced by her. Before a final fire, aloof in pain, aching on page three, soul of my light. A better person those waves as concerned about existence. Secerning through turmoil. A fierce lover. Made to flourish, a product of enduring, beyond escaping. Interior anxieties. An influencer. Plums with grapes. Days growing intensely.  

An Ode to Life

 

 

From opening to closing, gnawing at life, all things seem serious, even gnats. Looking at it, overwhelmed by it. Too much to ask about it, to share affection about it. Life is with parameters – made crisp, too much to tackle, too aloof to hold. (If I trespassed life, with all offenses, can I 

 

rightly complain?) See her as intimate, effectual at times, lethal, addictive in nature. She (life) chances heights, remains uncanny, many lows to understand her. Each axiom weakens in utterance. Prose (life) is suffering something esoteric, most insufferable, most desired. Beyond weaving, deep 

 

in seams, fabric neatness, cloth chaotic—in seeking life, catching visions, seeing simplicity, vying for entrance. Life is in needs; proven inconsistent, troubled by love, souls trying to fit in, trying to smile louder, enjoying when it moves softly. By no greater gift, seeing how life does souls, such remarkable pleasures, curse of contradiction, double teabags. With days like riddles, iridescent 

 

hopes, palatial foresight, either fulfilment or disappointment. From start to finish, guessing at life, (as if it wasn’t troubled enough); souls have earned life. Souls open early—accelerated prisms, life is never alike to its ideals. In decorum, determined, impossibly influenced—impassioned hopes, thwart at times, listening to something inside, pushing, though languishing. 

One Chance

 

 

A resolution is a promise, particularly to self. (I keep feeling distance from existence.) A few dilemmas. A capturing soulprint. Employing discernment: there’s a way to secern. (Too detached at points: such survival tactics.) A dreamer: believing one soul makes it better. Candy painted existentialism, minds on deathrow, estrangement, reminiscing on a great debate. By spirit to deceive self. Bereft of identity. Feeling incarnated. (It adds up.) One chase. One dotted line. (To dote. To sense easiness. To fret over eternity. In having thoughts. In becoming conundrums.) Such pure adoration. (We drift to something as it seems beautiful.) As it appears isn’t as it is; nevertheless, as it appears is what we have to work with (Skepticism). Some inherent maxim plagues souls: something is missing, until it is located, then, life is performative. I sense souls given up. Heaviness is a diesel. Caring is difficult. Trying to discover solutions. As it stands, a resolution is a first step. “I will do x. I will determine y.” (I see an image shrouded near shrubberies, a shadow, if we will; it has meaning in its palms, I feel it. I must chase a figment of my imagination, or walk away from destiny.) Another baptism. Another strife. Pantomime ventriloquist. As born to adore. Born to socialize. And in finding self we discover souls. One chance at victory.