Time turns and churns the soul. Such seducing magic. It’s a shame searching for correlation, the guessing is eternal. In making moments. In casting a glance. To looking over a shoulder. Thankful at points, a slight whisper, an iconoclastic feeling, hoping to keep rightness. A path for patience. A planet for spirits. Facing one’s greatest gift. To see Love smile, to hear a yawn, in all the giving, in
all the witnessing. So passed a marker, sketching demarcations, upon a state of phantoms—the heart caging, the armor falling inside—such a weaving excellence. Those times were bleak; it becomes contemplative. By afflatus—unstirred, sudden into intuition. And Love was cherished, it meant innocence, such a fallen miracle—to fail its station, to look up, slice a bit of apple, and
chuckle the pain free. The sweetest of memories, so hellish the outpour, such an outcry—it meant so much—made intangible, all one is left with is whet memories. In prayer—one wish, in feeling destitute, one remedy, waiting at the gates. So grand the exercise, hoping to disabuse lies, self-told, self-made—fret of those screaming plates, in trying to maintain immortality, in fearing those
interior harbingers; surely it was faith, certainly it was allure—those times so intimate, so precise, more penance, more retribution—hoping for a message, wasting life, where nothing is enough. In it all, a misnomer in skies—to call misappropriation favor; to visit in a second, to bring a psalm to life, to unveil Songs of Solomon, asking for reception, begging for evaporation.
