I
spent hours daydreaming, that inner dreamcatcher, attempting a cordial
exchange—as haywire discourse, aloft a silent wind, this space with shivers. It
courses this way, at fancy our rites, this lure of illusions; at playful
dalliance, or scornful healing, while cursed our vetted existence. I climb
asleep, where tremors appear, a bit nervous transparencies; as vacant souls,
roaming this vacuum, peering at incumbencies: our wretched paths; our glorious
paths; as nothing comes complaisance. I trek a pace, pulled by images, at force
to course a right turn; where omens sing, this inner demand, while an overseer
tugs at reality; to see that face, or to hear that name, while to wonder of
mutuality: Have stars glistened; Was it once a hassle; Are demons traipsing hemispheres?
It could be gentle, this village of in-betweens, weary to offset naiveties: that
casual disaster; that gutted existence; that space in absence as pure abeyance;
to sing of glories, while held to mud—our children surging through examples; to
grab a coke, while to plant a ruse, to see for sipping as adults; where
memories laugh, this easy distraction, our minds pinpoint causes. It comes this
way, puffing upon a balcony, agaze by myriads of sights: this playful snail; or
that symbolic gnat; as time pushes hostilities; to ask for graces, by
dysfunctional arms, this art graphed tragically. But more those eyes, as filled
with wisdom, to know of wisdom’s roots; while becoming stationed, this ache in
time, flipping through sketches: that hanging towel; that scented soap; that
greeting we summons for harmony: those eager ways; those scrambled eggs; that
nose to return to children. It could be harsh, as affected by images, while
predicted by science: this crevice of likeness; as warring against odds; while
living as a miracle: this earth in hearts, parted by awareness, as left to
trail devastation. It becomes omission, this story of lies, where said omission
points to guilt; that cask of sorrows, as a flask of bourbon, this inner
rebuke—as screaming of cultures, settled as distorted, a room filled with pink
elephants—as there’s a face, as chase as humble, as raw as politics: this outer
contour, distressed as lawyers, seated at a bench of temptations. I’ve sized a
mission, while sensing disturbance, rooted in uncharted history—to fly that
voyage, treading soils, at arms-reach this inner warzone; where eyes are weary,
for pain is vivid, while ties are established in blood: that deep-torn-maze, as
needing to believe, while evidence lingers as liars; or more for sights, that
inner wish, where all could just be perfect: if not for rules; if not for
needs; if not for order; this place as seen, distorted in images, while to
cringe a touch of reality: that crazed glare; that outer disturbance; that want
to offer aid. But I must return—to that gentle impression—where arts come to
life: those hazel lashes; those porcelain fingers; that eagle awareness—as time
pledges existence, in favor this angel, as painting normality—this picture in
haste, for wars are silent, where musicians probe for earthquakes. I must confess, this musing nature, while
seated at awareness: this mother’s cry; or father’s leeriness; where siblings
flinch at strangeness: as born to flowers; at tears for melon; while sushi
becomes a delicacy. It turns this way, at love for horses, tugging at raven
mane: this arch in mind-ways, this science of events, to prove an anomaly to
some; while fierce to caution, as one to live, while others jettison ten years
in one stroke. But more to beauty, as preparing for life, while others are
deprived with debts: this angel as buried; this portrait as casted; our ways as
affected dearly: this UNICEF soul, sponsored by love—our eyes claiming
victories.
