There’s darkness, this was
that is, as segue to light; that
inner fever, that seeping whisper, while caves erupt. I knew it not, as to lose
mind, scraping grime out of mindstuff; to see it neatly, this thing of souls,
charged by silent forces. It couldn’t be real, as awakening volts, or that deep
possession; that tulip of power, that lotus of praise, that meditative
transcension. I’m indebted sorely, at war with passions, while asking to remain
human; that heated prayer, those sudden jolts, as to enter a different room;
where souls are floating, whereto, desiring meaning, as to fall in-love with
powers. I see us staring, peering at electricity, falling through arcs; this
supernal life, as harnessed by minds, this permanent way of living; to enter a
den, and posture gently, as to generate a fortune. We seek to share it, to
impart it to seeds, while subject to intrusions; those inner crevices, filled
with hells, this upheaval of character; to practice Bhakti, and die that
fortress, falling and gripping for guts; while seasons morph, this psyche as
soul, traveling in stillness. It couldn’t be real—that inner boomerang, or that
upward procession; to dig so deeply, peering at a hidden self, as to
recalculate faith; this science of fools, as to distinguish charms—rising into
a glorious being; this power for souls, as to meet our reflection, at once a
familiar feeling; to then retreat, or to aid from afar, that closer to touching
shoulders. I beckon for light, while trekking darkness, seeking to valve this
waterfall. It’s merely a thought, as to remedy pain—if only to build a
daughter’s castle; this deep enchantment, slipping through a trance, awakened
to a higher meaning; that space about minds, cleaving to sanity, uprooted but
planted deeply; as sighted in visions, while to finally meet, at once this air
of charisma; this mystic art, gathered at gardens, this place within; where soil
is rich, this tender seed, this thing of souls.
