Sunday, July 12, 2020

Of A Soul’s Wilderness


by wild whispers to have remorse while dialogues tend towards redemption. a man will offend family, friends, doctors, or even extensions. such inmost music such digitized humanness where some by glory, others by eclipse, while some by coffin birth. we acquiesce to highbred lemurs. we seem nameless adventurers. we need our ideals. oh for naked auroras or aeonian draperies by sages or swamis at such a late arrival. as double witted or negotiate brilliance where anger suffocates, drives, or increases discomfort. such sweating into soaked while it was anxiety—a pair of drumsticks a pair of cymbals or ancient Douglass tambourines. upon a flyleaf to have sketched a triolet where it lives in seams but demands more creativity. (it was life this dream it was army-minded diligence it came by assiduous suffering. by ache or fatigue. by listening to dialogues. or magenta visions, fuchsia hopes, along with priding disappointment.) by thunder a nib a capture where cuffs are invisible—such needs or metanoia where one acts so unflattering. (it comes to mind, but it appears self-evident, if one is uncolorful, at all times, we become aloof.) our chairs our tables our metallic abstracts. our skies as our perception or doors as our mysteries. where something is difficult or it wiggles by anxiety or it speaks suddenly or aggressively while it treasures humility. the family with distrust, disgusts, or deep, wrinkled, even mind ready stereotypes. or friends so distraught, uneasy, or notably indifferent. we approach something too vague, too involved, or unperceivable: somewhat animated, somewhat unfriendly, while strict anger by honesty reveals too much to look back at with forgiveness. where souls are wolves or caves or unlocked suddenly. such colorful inconsistencies while one grows a certain way, where in essence, one remains in a protective state. many understand while we play with garter snakes or iguanas or exotic looking bugs; so, we conclude, we debate, but never is it too clear to critique.  

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...