Existence

To wrestle with it—and so far from home, roaming through thoughts; the emphatic lights—the graphic bulbs—that closer the reality; through turns and dead-ends, where walls morph into a maze. There’s pressure—the must for entrance, to filter the marsh; where presence lives, the mesh of disease, to distinguish thoughts. The bells are ringing, to reenter life, as one exits the womb. Something features a dream, as if out of place, the plight of a living church. It couldn’t be—this thing—that it is, to waft through dialogues, that richer the arts, wherefore the aches.

Rivers vanish—that picture the flood, a bed of bones; to caption midday, to mingle the midnights that spark the lanterns, and even the caves. There’s a lithic mind—connected to brains, to measure the frontal lobes; and there’s a dream, to reach this perfect—this perfect definition; plus for love, to seldom that moment, this sense of heavy; to challenge normality, to sketch the portrait, this mosaic life; in which for hearts, to shift like waves, to trek it uneasily; whereby to shake at curves, where the gravel churns, and the pillars run.

Such is existence—a never before journey, captured in the sinks of minds; the thirst for better, or something other—than the yellow lights; that grand appeal, to live it unsteady, to watch a world in secrecy. It couldn’t be—to want it so deeply—this adult life; where features are crooked, to die the living life, to suddenly vanish; in which are dreams, to have for riches, where time would laugh; so more the arts, and psychic music—the days of phantoms; else the measure, for that constant ache, a millennium of running.