So imagined it. As most such surreality. To hear it until you tighten up. To know universe, semi-disgruntle, believing in suffering innocence. And I didn’t know it as it passed through. It’s found a home. I was with elixir, filled with pash, traveling at 65 mph. A steady pace, trees passing by, sky at attention, to sense—this is life. It’s obvious those topaz eyes. Such fuchsia dreams. Over brooms and stars. And something says: “We mustn’t obsess”; in obsessing nonetheless: some keep it disguised—a life of that: killing self. I hear sassy old timers saying: “I shouldn’t have to remind you why you love me.” So imagined it. As most such surreality. And lately, you appear. I’m left with wonder. It’s mazelike, trimming shrubberies, seeing a zipping mouse, with geese sitting near a pond. Those years when poetry took flight, everything was with zest, albeit, fraught by essence, inheritance, what they gave some with zeal. Life is full throttle, with souls slowing down, wondering what must change. So democratic about souls; learning what aristocrats withstand; season of deep beliefs. It comes with momentum. It overwhelms. It sails seas. To have adored in one instance, whelmed by compassion, never a fault as we float and fly—to scud and flit. By fevers when we met. By grace of suffering when we held. By tender avalanche to exhaust us. I must believe in souls, something with goodness, something compelling uprising emotion.
