you
eat with utensils, I eat with hands, we each cry with our souls. there’s
plastic on the sofa, there’s irony at the Oscars, there’s expectation of souls.
It comes that it may pass, the pangs for accuracy, the informal versus the
formal.
we
attract in essence, essential escapades, more form in those arts. we trickle
ahead, or behind, a legacy move occurred before us.
treasured
galaxy, motion missiles, movement in our beings.
pulled
closer, made to fit grooves, plugged-in or unplugged.
sensational
passion, unrealized on planets, fury ignited differences. so economic, so
business like, so disorganized—as adoring in one, what was missed in another,
with full liberty to exhaust the margins.
we
escape it at points, some are fortunate, to enjoy several worlds. to love
against color, to embrace ethnicities, born to flow freely—those maps on brains
those eyes in tunnels, desperate to break chains. ironclad upsets, sunk into
distress, a woman is right to observe her comforts.
one
question: when guilt disappears, has a person become pathology?
a
wilder soul, capable of love, capable of flourishing, as into wilderness, found
astray, home early.
days
are illumination. souls are gaining momentum. certainty becomes inquisition.
more
understanding, to believe it to be, with the forest ahead: pausing at barks,
kicking twigs, categorizing bugs, leaves falling, animals howling, birds made
eternal.
