This
inner nature—the churn of personality, a stem with roots; to fire pistons, as
mere Form, revving engines; so how
for this, a rootless cause, an inherent operation; and what for depth, to
search out the rootless, and give it a name; and how for thoughts, the flow of
the skies, for sightless motion. I’m at want for knowledge, surfing a continuum—that
little kid is a grown man. Am I different, or the same, or some sort of
substance? These are long held questions; the essence of something hidden; and
certainly must be: this measure of me, founded in you, to cry your angst. Oh
the residue, this metaphysical light, to wrestle fear, to rebuke paranoia. It
comes from life, a riddled childhood, drilling at a psyche; where mother perished,
as so for father, this repeated death; where many flourish, the breadth and
width, of something so complicated; for it’s easy to get lost, in vats of
liquor, to grog the subconscious; but then to dread, the lucid hours, a
stranger unto self; and thus, we perish, storming through mirrors, afraid of
the Paraclete. Is it us, to channel
us, at loss for intelligence—that mere design, to target a certain heart;
indeed the nights, to flood the lights, to go to that place. There’s personality within itself; this
most for frequent, chiming and dancing; to plague the few, this curious mind, a
transmission in motion. We feel the alternator, and flush the radiator,
skipping through therapy; to find for self, an indomitable force, as stubborn
as lightning. Oh for gods, and tenacious goddesses, pushing for pulling; to
ever unlock, the bolts of sanity, to hear it in the background; and this for
hearts, that valley trail, to read it closely; to feel it visit, to scream, Hello, to enter the holy of holies.
