All are Braving the Future

 

 

If I may tell it, sore disquieted, greeting memories. Such soul-iniquity, grinding through havens, begging those last three dimensions.  Lord! Enough said.  They extracted what they could, upon sickbeds. And Love is too wise to deceive. We wonder if such is deliberate. Giving it all! They ask if souls are living, as opposed to existing.  Mango cigars. Strawberry gins.  If to ask a deeper question, unrelated to sensuality, to wonder—will I see heaven?  Such a monopoly in dungeons; unseen tears; walking, writhing, maybe a fork splits literature.  (It’s an oddity of feelings; one intends intentions; each moment pushes its presence, itching nearby, if one word to sooth it, I’ve lost all my words.)  Sunshine in a gifted miracle, one smile to see completion, one sin against all I lived for, bled of spirit, dining on what would be; never as it is, while it still appears, losing sight, thrust through by a spear.  What has been done, as it shivers, each kiss is a lance, never realized she hated us.  Moonlit. To live out some fantasy, to never divulge understanding, and I can’t ignore it.  We’ve come to a point where God must be defined, if to speak godspeed. Where adoring is qualified by aching, upon an unredeemed island, such wild calmness, and in reality, the poet lost the war.  I wouldn’t utter a word, wandering bridges, a thousand years out, and God was found to be nonfiction. Losing stability, walking up-straight, only a few made privy, only one knew.      

Worn Senses

 

 

Let the gift be faith. Many at war. We emphasize it. Many ask, why? How it feels to own promise. A man chides his understanding, realizing where he stands, each shift is a celebration of sanity. (With watching comes questions, ease of Love’s rain, one last trace trying its future.) In knowing grief, one knows joy, comparing and contrasting the two. 

 

I might put every suggestion in a hat, so unfair to assess us, full on over there, such sullen silence. I expected misfires, with creatures wafting afar, accustomed to eternal chastisement. Some can’t change—be it goodness or badness. Personality is static. 

 

Pulled into orbit, negotiating with motivation, they call us ambitious. 

 

When it feels like coal, resonates with soot, and grinds one into fiberglass, we call it love. Such aspiration. Damn near irrational. I leave alone those cisterns. I come back to where they dropped me off at. If to lose breath, to flicker into flame, to surrender to imperfection. Such testimony. Healing for the big show. Too disappointed or too infatuated or destined for ambivalence. The pain is this: one loses years, and gets pieces of wisdom. Time is delicate, souls are wasting increments of existence.

 

By graces—faced by faith, for many it’s Moses, for many it’s Yeshua. Vouchsafing. Many mistakes. Holding the torch, running through a storm, trying to warn the community.   

Empty Space

 

 

I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of energies. Such interwoven moods, a series of underpinnings. A different type of reality, another form of guessing. So much earth, required participants, principles discussed, certainty in an uncertain land. Part censored to begin with, winnowed like wheat, much held in vibrations. So spatial, incomplete pieces, placing fragments in order, alike to puzzles. One says: “It’s untimely.” Indeed. We work the parts, piecemealing horizons, offering the best one has to suggest. 

Alike to academia: the best one can offer.

We debate secular matters. We build off of exegetical regions.  (In goodness, one will greet us. In response, something will register, as best as reflected.) A soul of its persistence, gathered by its understanding, days of an inner kayak, mind of its covenants. As radical creatures, discerning through fragments, part plumbed in paradox, trying to vet components—in making maxims. 

            I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of being human. Many souls, differing temperaments—running a risk of one perspective: we speak to groups; it becomes polemic. We might entertain truths, held sacred to hearts: spirit of his mind, soul of his cave. To gaze off into components, to have gifts, to wrestle with critical spaces.       

Choosing Symbols

 

 

To speak of spirit is speculation, albeit, a symbol, filled with meaning and designation. In my hunger for the symbol, in my thirst for immortality, I die partway, forbidden my greatest craving. (The present warfare has been long. I wonder what I’m telling myself to get through it.) Hitherto, I try to imagine a person’s wound. In realizing my own, I know souls carry existentialism. We leave alone what probes us the most. Such inclusiveness, as opposed to exclusivity, amazed by the horizon. I see an impasse—in rationalizing, I sense it loses its opalescence. I find, at some point, we intentionally do x, or we expectantly do y. We’re often let off the hook. Life is confusing that way. After a while, new titles slip into consciousness—the way each learns to live. (A man ostracized his son. Years later, his son was doing well. The father sought the son out. The son desired a father. And was willing to assist the father financially. The father wasn’t merely pleased by that, he had to deplete the son of his pride. He berated the son. The son tried harder. Neither quite could see what was taking place. This happens, time and again.) In understanding spirit, we see competing end points, a village of acts upon a spectrum, never quite with certainty—a long held dispute. We try to tie knots of clarity. In feeling a certain way. Wondering why it moves this way. To fathom parts and miss chunks. It’s either too much, or it represents life, the norms.  I shift perspectives, listening to gripes, suffocated in parts by philosophy.  Just watched by spirit. Just read by spirit. In what it symbolizes. In pure speculation.  Life is peculiar when freedoms are denied.  I imagine freedom of spirit, independence of spirit, even able to include others by spirit.  (One qualm comes with knowing how spirit entered, a cozen entrance; to then empathize with spirit, a quiet oddity of souls; each observation comes with struggle—it’s quite mysterious how it all operates—one undergoes an analysis of spirits … something suspect … albeit, a form of dialogue.  Each person lives in a box: sharing boxes, trying to break free of boxes: quite possibly—centered in perception … which denies full on accountability in all the negotiations with spirit.)  I go through self-talk, attempting to see exactly as things are, as opposed to listening to my feelings. I fail each time, getting closer, finding a necessity to pardon acts—for the sake of balancing out inside. People, self – included, we’re strict with ourselves, while having a time with holding ourselves accountable. It’s troubling on one hand, we never let up on ourselves, on the other hand, we’re too quick to dismiss our certain faults. Spirit is unique in this sense, some pains are with us, others, by our initiatives, are bypassed.  I try to see, thus, to feel, even when end points are inordinate. This, too, surprises at times.  And we seem to operate off cues. Some induced by others, many seduced by an interior mirror. We also mourn the living. We mourn our thoughts. This is spirit. It gravitates towards mourning. What seems too powerful to carry, the soul attempts to discard, often unaware of the subconscious.  I select mythos, spirit-fire, even though it’s speculation. Spirit gives life.  Last in line. First given to sacrifice. Tales were told. We call fables comfort food. In fact, those rare creatures were destined to think differently. The penultimate distinction is seen in responses. It doesn’t explain why some are mourning their responsibility and others aren’t. The ideal calls deviation a behavioral malfunction. The ideal is often unsubstantiated; it just seems better than other options. Spirit determines its necessities. Spirit lives contrition.                

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

 

 

It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by lusts, innocent desire, naïve desire. Light forms in each life. Darkness dissipates at moments, only to return. In seeing like others, it churns. In being self, I realize I’m unfree. Still lascivious, with banshee cravings, disputing a halo, a scar, a tint of falsities. It rarely falls as it should; even then, some part is missing. Love travels a portal, morals are placed neatly, what we ought to do takes precedence, with space to see humanity, as one longs for clarity, one sees into horizons; and it was fire to alarm us, such facial glitter, knowing it all started with flame. Souls kept looking outwardly, probed internally, missing what some kept as a riddle, so casually to announce life. Now souls smoke hookahs, debate what’s written, wearing tunics, asking permission to speak. Prose has a mind of its own. It tells a story. It desires lusts. It dreams of polite silence, to adore—to live by joys, with a somber aftertaste. Through years, watching an inner person, best of oneself, still unclear, failing to try, longing into a breeze. Prose would have a soul confessing love, pleading for orisons, made a mantis, begging for punishment. Sweet charms, deadly spirits, to be with antennas high, defenses low, to believe in others again.   

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunderstood—raising an eyebrow, trying to effect perception. In seeing accuracy, a person strives for accuracy. In hearing articulation, a student desires to become a professor—of words, dreams, ambition and scars. We find another pleat, held in sciences, matters are confounded and days are incognito; humans are appearing to themselves. Nonetheless, it’s done to engender responses, as it ought to be for clarity; phantom of dreams, visions of mid-skies. Life is complicated by ether thoughts. Something needed confuses and becomes obsession. Nevertheless, it’s done for an audience, for a response—Is this accurate? Each light, each angle, a person leaves self – open to disappointment. Nevermore an assertion, rather, a need—if to stray from it, to touch by core—a person’s potentiality. Each presentation is for an audience; to paint ceilings, to adorn dens, to fluff pillows. Measuring verse. Aching authenticity. Remembering words—pursuing clarity, with an affection for mystery. With still a need, if to change it, to become enamored by art for its expression. Much a challenge for a person’s ego; a supernova, unwatched constellations, a neglected testimony.   

Endless Trails

 

It took anxiety to utter affection; soundness by decision, to wander into a soul, to knit excellence; vow of one heart, love as cushion, erecting a powerful ark. With tomorrow unpromised, holding to one gaze, life of one spirit, courage to feel vulnerable. By mystic enchantments, gentle chants, dying in one’s resurrection, living through one’s deaths; farmer of a garden, seals in Revelation, doing all to sustain it, doing more to unveil it; walking catacombs, reading petroglyphs, unseen inside, mythic and metaphysical. Seeking something spectacular; in hearing snippets drop—tension availing, an undercurrent of hostility, a soul becomes enamored; something about friction, frustration, feral hormones; conscious dreams, casual daggers, cordial dungeons. A soul would adore, for it needed life, an illusion becomes a force, a curse becomes a dream; a bitterness to it, perceived as sweetness, if to arrange one’s circumstances. With needing comes a component—to desire comes an affection, to worship comes an obsession. True benthic infatuation; electrified galvanization; when a socket charges a memory—we seem to feel possessed. A language fettered. A heart filled with chainsaws. One enormous undertaking. To understand forces, as driven from wells, to determine properties, to silence violins.   

Love Seems Immortal

 

 

I sense in demure a woman wiser than many. A man is set to believe best as wills itself. Anxiety of my cross. Walk of my life; anguished by beauty, crazed over suffering. I sense in demure a woman seized by life, managing multifaceted mansions. Unlike many, maintaining ties, surfing tides, an upsurge of realities. (A little freshet at times. We bring it back.) Honor of a soul’s grave. Magnet of a spirit’s brains. Fire of my flame; life of my deaths. So many moths! I stand in admiration, amazed by anomaly, such goodness inside, chasing sunshine. Such heaviness, heaving up a future, so furtive inside, with getting closer, with touching spice, one feels like running. It’s too much; daylight is seldom sweet, nightfall is seldom safe: mirror of ponds, lakes of injustice, as for love, it seems shaky at points; so much beauty in danger, so secure those thirty minutes, so intimate those few numen skies. I sense in demure a longer process, best of a furnace, kiln of chi, chiseled to precision: life is war! I sew. You sew. We dance. Arts are invisible. At a given second, deep darkness, grappling with sunbeams, trying to see clearly. I notice an understanding of decorum, deeper receptivity, a radiant smile, a weeping to it all, imperceptible to its reality. Such a wrecking ball, pushing fragments, diligent to keep it all by treasures.

Sky calligraphy, excellent pressure. Trying to hear life, mental elements, accustomed to uncertainty, asking Fate for guidance. Love sees further, part avoiding repetition; having given a lung, having passed away, still solid, given all to endure. (That’s fire, skyscraping, soaring, a little sad, looking at a nonending component. I felt fey. I thought to you. I paused. Most of a dungeon key; rapid motion, a vow meant so much, those years during youth. Wanting to believe, swayed against cogent thoughts; sold a soul, asked for a retake, denied and forced to live it out.) A jagged road, palming gravel, feeling reality, writing a thesis. Looking to balance out before clouds fall. And Love analyzes; might do on a moment’s notice, might wait until seas dry.      

Slipping Away

 

Miles until completion. Rivers bypassed. Oceans dwelled in. Explosive pains, such differing creeds. Too much time suffers; by candlelight and scar.  Knowing what you give, I wonder of how much it aches. That deeper region, explored by one giant; curve of one’s disasters, life of one’s dreams.  Don’t let us fool you, our need is damn near critical.  More literature. More mistakes. More repentance. And it would if it mattered, so occasioned by screams. New America, old roots, as we live one tear to soil.  Baffled creatures, filled with needs, an anchor confusing us: spirit of my sanity, days of my years.  One would be amazed by it all, to realize in passing, critical magnifiers.  Ancient seas, one pursuit, one focus, if to make heaven before hell. And a decent tale, as told to souls, one seeking his visions.  In running deeper, defused in parts, wondering what life pushes out of us; soul of my soul, ink of my spirit. So many miles until completion. Such camouflage. With trying to suspect you. Flame of my afflatus. Palms full of symbolism. Angst by fever. So far into history. So confusing. Much taken for granted, more upon a breeze: depth of suspicion, rising lakes. Blamed until blindness. So easy to efface our parts. So many kilometers, so many false nooks, to sit in fluids—damn near abandoned.       

Some Folks We Do Not Forget

 

 

Bone and gristle; marrow and wine. I gave until it churned. So much for ought; such pearls for souls, a new name. And remembering great embarrassment, near a filthy lake, conversing with a platypus. Love is hurting, finding good in pain, frozen, an iceberg, made warm, such losing identity. I skip differences. I never get lost in it. I used to sell self dreams. To ignore skies, to purchase emeralds, sudden to stumble upon rhinestones. Such white golden eyes; only love, we assert; beneficial wrath, a ghost at it, no one quite knows. I appeared, tatted, listening, speaking, said something unique, and it meant truth.  By battle to upsurge and sing, sour at times, wondering lately—reality has a compass to it. To imagine life stops at chi; certain dissatisfying satisfaction. So oxymoronic: think it through. Upon a sketching, crocheted clouds, freefalling miles high, upon a presence, had to expose it.  From bottom rung, rinsed repeatedly, baptized as a testimony; never met her, some glimpse, giving all to buff it out.  Back to Father; both wrong, I just hold a different identity. So infallible, so discarded, standing in rain, a chuckle from depth the island. It will never be what dwells deeper, too many hurdles.  I could try harder, upon a lotus, moving self until it burns. Soul of my soul. Art of her castle.    

Split Photographs

 

 

With given a lasting voice, dying to live, gathering berries, flooding winepresses. Once to feel it, gates to conceal it, threshed or winnowed—core warring, needing family. So many elements against us, we must have something to give. It went from temperamental to intermediate to eternal. Kindness fought the fight, incurred damages, like a spine of needles. The lasting bets, poolhall karma, so many afflicted by rites.  Loving was hard. One whisper; one kiss. If a claim is impossible—no one will believe it. Such topical exaggeration; we might entertain it. Just something to it.  With given a lasting voice, dying to live, gathering wounds, flooding God’s ear.  It goes ballistic. Such bombastic cries. If one knew—I bet one would say something.  Ghana skies—trying to enjoy November, paid a price, intimate with loss. Once to feel it, unknit a little, trying to locate substance, something to grip to, traveling atmosphere.  And it meant so much, to become so minimum—a jet mentality, a jutted ambition, the few of the last ghosts; rolling dice, each day, trying to define sanity—its demarcations, its body, what in hell does it mean? One might giggle, once it comes, same wrestling, same activity. Only if it all meant nothing. Only if one could walkaway from it. Like a big joke—until one is in a den, knees bent, wailing in silence. Groping walls, squinting at gnats, a long day, a wrong greeting, it changes the dynamics forever.