I’ve become a piece of what sustains us—something else is missing. Deeper thoughts; louder presence. In rereading it, I see sensitive elements. It will never be clarity. We'll never make
quilts. What I desire is forbidden. What I’ve become is unmeasurable. I get into a funk, whispering to leaves, plucking mind noise, sipping cranberry juice. It was without meditation. It’s now contemplative. (I do imagine at times, some wild radiance, one distant, long-range touch.) In
saying Love, it feels foreign. In admiring a mongoose, I become part animal, part reptile. Akin to meerkat senses, petals with waterfalls, danger as it swelters, a dying innocence. I have not impressed many. I battle with that. In truth, craft is for its on sake. I hope to get there. (and Love
was with grievances, careful to offend, I would imagine deeper hauntings—dealing with decisions, convincing self to move forward.) And came a soul, like a brand-new clarinet: it never goes asleep.
I’ve grown accustomed to dreams, listening to something disconcerting—upon a concerto. (and one is privy, so gentle its damages, if he deserves it: a soul was watched, a soul measured it: I’m not sure perspective is clear.) To say of love, it dwells in this castle, fawning for Love: delicate passions, alike frustrations—to love plurality, to try, to curse skies.
