Friday, February 3, 2017

Birds towards Radiance

We capture moods, shifting through songs, while tender our ambitions; to chisel sunlight, or harvest sunbeams, that richer for receiving rain; this kingdom of cellos, this chorus of rainbows—our hearts beating, Eternity; this lever as love, sought by sages, at tears to render placeboes—or more that charm, to sift out pains, while centered in effusions—this pouring into, that violin of souls, as scooting turmoil aside. It rages clearly, this vest of needles, as tortured to forgive; this double five, to strike a ten, as landing on double twos; to cry by fires, this needed ritual, as rinsing those muddy woes; to see a light, this heart of powers, as arising to sing a cadent psalm; that terrible compassion, while shadowed in tension, to render this sad enlightenment—or more pianos, in tune with trombones, as our minds become a symphony.  It felt good to live, at peace with joy, before actions became splinters. It felt good to run, chasing after canines, or riding mini-motorcycles. It felt good to dance, this belle of hearts—that kiss so much for passions; as living immortal, by handheld candles, intrigued by this spiritual ideal; to read of King, or to watch Gandhi, as tears this era a soothing enchantment; as years to blossom, forming databanks, affected by this tour of chaos; to love regardless, our unselfish souls, a bit for selfish for needing love; this faraway dream, our rubric a tad crooked—this streaming of nightmares; as singing as scriptures, repeating our history, lost in Ecclesiastes: this time for pausing—adrift our sorrows, proud to hold this sacred psalm.  I palmed a leggier, to feel infusions, as adrift this brilliant sorrow; to grow by chance, as peering correctly, at lose this gain as sinning; to repent by measures, as affected by life, where neither love nor friend can plant our rose. It takes for arts, this inner sensei, attuned with that candent spirit; to flee from mire, as embracing gold, while appreciating that lost mire; this effusion of fires, as cave to soul, at warmth this subtle blossom.

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...