We seek Sedona, this marvelous code word, as beautiful as
perfection—this root by candor, this spirit to countenance, where souls nod by
confirmation; to enter glory, our perception shifted, at sudden, that
realization. I wax, wait and wander, or whine, wail and weave—this endless
gate, that house about wheels, chasing by sands those castles. I think of you,
as one with experience, able to guide a nation; or parachute warfare, at
sudden, this inner mischief; or more to induce, this seated richness, as spirit
leaps by mirrors; to speak it boldly, a bit untidy, or a bit unfastened, or a
bit undressed—this chaotic order, as not to sound trite, but it fits—this field
of ferns, to blossom as daisies, that second to confirm existence: this
daughter by rites, but more through claims, those pegs disrupting neural
pathways; to conjure this Ghost, or to rev through chi, or to feel this mixture
of cosmos: that fabulous fire, fueled as flaming, this furious fever; to
out-chant demons, as some may whisper, this thing about participation; or fall
through trance, as eyes roll in sessions, to return a moment later; or to see
in Spirit, at sudden, a plantation, handed a Book of Scriptures; but speak in
silence, forwarding salvation, sudden about suffering—this scrubbing at souls,
forever sensational, sealed, settled, and shaded; where crows whisper, flaring
through snows, a man at waist his whirlpool; this yes and no, this right and
left, at sudden, that altered soul; where swans blink, at sudden, those truths,
to chase by grit that experience. Our time has come, as stationed in spirits,
those ghosts yelling for expression—as examined minds, to correlate activity,
while challenged by illness—this flicker of flame, knitted through holiness,
this affection for religiosity—where energy swarms, a person—my chest, to ask
that adventure; where souls shiver, this paining joy, as meditated as sages. I
hear a swan, rooted in spirits, to find for truths that experience; as pulled
by shadows, known to channel, stitched and stirred in snow-fields—that serious
mindset, while ghosts are visiting, this thing irritating consciousness: those
ill-thoughts, pushed into pits, where said pits, arise with vengeance; or more
silence, as something growing, this ability to see clearly—to censure self, as
trying for goodness, or more this need to soothe a spark; where disciples
mourn, while yogis suffer, as to open we must close. I adventure love, at
sudden, this snatch of souls—by far too broken, as filled by holiness: this
woman to trespass, as to court a spirit, while charging hell to flee; or rather
another, to know for secrets, this force about illness; as stirred by lights,
this infant fireball, that casual firebrand, those furious firestorms; to heart
through chi, this sighted marshal art, afflicted by knowing.
