What
for this glory of presence, this Ghost of a Being! What for the knowledge of
Spirit, slightly hypnotic? We mourn the black and white; our recourse is subtle
grays; to flare and flame and burden a thought-pattern. I feel it more the
spinning, as one in a whirlwind, filtered through by grace; to have and hold,
with our very lives, the magnets of humanity. It’s a cryptic reign, to ignite a
spark, where essence lingers; as felt to explain, this cave of activity, as
underground as a heartbeat; in which for love, this arc of waves, the riches flickering
flames. We feel it daily, this inner warmth, permeated by jolts and volts; to
this discern, unto mystic vibrations, this light glimmering in psyches; to have
and hold this vessel of tears, frustrated with happiness. Our graves are
haunting, to visit in segments, as one whittled within; this carving of days,
this cryptic language, to explain this myth; as in vision, this story of
dreams, vetted through experience; to rise and die, to return a new person, as
alert as a ninja. I think of allies, alive the dungeons, to relish in
unforeseen joys; at peace for moments, to dwell in ghosts, this unrelenting
magnitude; so charge us gently, as was of old, to flame and soar as angelic
souls; for this is Mind, the weather of infinity, as fully human and fully divine;
for was it us, delving into lost lands, at one with shooting dreams; as
purposed in fire, this inner dwelling, a feature probing this outward spirit;
as too fall inward, pulling at dominions, affixed to concentration; to mention
to a few, the unexplained, piecing particles of privilege. I mustn’t probe, as
one haunted for answers—but I’m sewn for inquiries; this leading feeling, as
set aside, as something as a drumbeat.
