Feel
free to fly, welcomed as flying freely, a spectrum of the skies. Touch the
forces, as green the revelations, as beige the interpretations. Hunt to live
freely, as one free to fly, through ink, as through love. Life is conventicle,
as said of religious, unwelcomed as mystical; for its unlawful—ever to believe,
but laws are unformed; so we chat in silence, as to outcast the esoteric, for
something is uniquely different; so more the mainstream, this supernal joy, to
mold us as molded by souls. But oh the nectar, the grandest splendor, a
countenance at full capacity; as diagnosed, the Spirit is wild, as to have read
our history; whereas, the gifts, the secrets, the powers, are worthy of our
inquiries. There’s a constellation, this inward chimney, filled with smaze,
even soot; we climb in, scrub fiercely, as to witness the New Jerusalem;
wherewith to articulate becomes a challenge; the gravity of misty matter, to
conjure as unseen, as exposed in cryptic arts. There are truths stationed in
solitary; to then return, as a pillar of the community; as seen aglow, as a
friend of neurotransmitters, as alive sitting steadily. How to answer it; this
probing question; that reach of chi, that reach of Spirit? We live a paradox;
for it is what it isn’t; as one transfixed, marinating in images: from ground
to Being, from soul to soul, from mind to heaven. It’s similar to the sudden
affect, channeled by a dear friend, as to awaken concentration. The art is
mystic, as to explain phenomena, where one soars filled with electric
vibrations. We can’t but live it; as beyond thought, where thought has become a
vehicle of said activity!
