Life is sunny darkness … steep regions, old school rhythms, seeing is difficult—one message is clear, there’s condition in humans. It’s a shame, such twilight zones, a soul is never trusted, and couldn’t utter Forgiveness. Tried and true, unrighteous but pure, we fail to decode scripture. We fail to determine God, as written. Love was sullen that day, many occasions, we call it humanness. It has no alpha, and it has no omega. Born to it; learned in it; it begins to feel normal, like comfort, we might not be ready for something new and different. With Love standing stalwart, face-to-face with leviathan, resurrecting in her rebukes, part maniacal, unsurpassed sanity, frustrated it repeats
each morning. In meeting Love, it was mystery, as if we were sent—mental penmanship, physical calmness, attentive to what can never be; soft spoken cadence struck like fire, and Love was dear forests, irrepressible commitments. In disputing insouciance, vying for chaos, to need control, an art, just because. With watching comes affectation. With rumination comes images. Some are wiser than others, they believe in practices, impressing upon consciousness. Indeed, poets, sages, collars are wild, speaking foreign cries, until one is faced by uncanny atmosphere. Love left it to darkness,
roaming interiority, cleaving to existence—like an experiment, like poignant flame, chi surging and soaring throughout our universe. It never stops. Part justified. Part for furtive concerns. Human need is pivotal. One ponders—it could come from elsewhere. If one is charged by essence, connected to similar flames, these quite easily could appease and satiate a spiritual craving. It never mattered. It always sung to itself. To pretend otherwise is impractical. In trying to love reflection, in wrestling with societal demands, in giving to it—a somber canto, it appeared necessary, it seemed to give life, with others having perfections … they make it look easy: life of my life, such fruit, trying to capture insouciance … I saw it with Love sitting closer. I paid it no mind. Most are trying to save each other. Most elements are fleeting. A soul is lucky to return to itself. (Years at mind catapults, a vision, quite affected by life, no other recourse. Connected to souls, feeling condition, quite obvious, nothing clairvoyant there; with days questioning themselves, to have gazed in, disputing freedoms in others, while we dispute inclusiveness likewise.)
Over pomegranates, ruining a neat blouse, not too concerned with that: lilting laugher. More, a gentle smile. Too grown for a fledgling. (Some are trying, too much to compute.) It seems legitimate. Two come together. All of life in that union. Love is unseen in being seen. Nights with it, because something is missing. In holding one’s breath, hoping all will change, loving arms, giving all to survive it, captive of faith. It wasn’t intended for readers, maybe—it was for the author, such décor, rooms filled with chatter, eyes full of silence. In every nook there’s a soul. Made pensive at times, gathering oneself, calmly facing their lives—to brave sanity, those loving charms, to need what aches, more goodness than deficits—turning rain into an empire.
