The
years sit aglow that stalk the mind-banks; there’s a universe, pressured by
thoughts, a cave of oak trees; to live in shadows, squirming for light,
appalled—at various turns. To see the chakras squatting lowly, that tare of
vexations. He fell a grave, to become his breath, received by few; that channel
of tensions, to watch the self-death, to spiral with gurus—that left behind,
trailing from a distance—and Light heard, the silent wails, screaming from cemeteries.
The mirror’s muddy, to buff an impression, disarmed by the sight; to then
flinch, to gaze deeper, to suture a dream. If only to patch it, where none
would see, the confusion of a private island: so much to vanity, to replace the
mask—where polish is made of gravel—to forfeit emotions, and swarmed by
emotions, to feign as callous—the darkest of nights, the measure of dying,
where the mentor is suffering. We see it in children, a tinge of ours souls,
acquired through proximity—and even through actions. He couldn’t see it—the
crows and clouds and sky-falls—to trek deserts until he heard it; to yearn for
more of this partial bliss founded in fleeting moments. It must exist—this yin
for yang, this internal balance: if only a section, to harmonize life, that
second of convergence—afloat the winds, that graphic change, that emphatic
upheaval; to live this heart, at full potential, to commune with a universe. He
tore the ideal, to split in parts, that closer to a triumph; to meet a soul
that pushed the pressure, to impart a subtle gift. This is measure—to give in
fragments, to alter illusions—that driven self, to stipple a dot a minute,
where the outcome, satisfies the craving, for this telic need.
