I have
ambition, tugged by determination, suffering from their inadequacy. Most are
living the insecurity. I grapple with this, eating the grand debate, weathered
by waves and storms. Some reason inside an acorn, knocking against it, trying
to unlock the message. The core doing its mopping. The soul unfitted, against
the ocean, sea turtles just planted what they will never see. So luminescent,
so chemic, identity is spoiled, like unruly, with definition bleeding into a
cloth. The wrath of misfortune, the tumble and dry, the rage in striking
against the iridescent wall; battling the great redundancy, fighting the indecent
inadequacy, raffling the undercurrent of deep blue waters. The hustle of the
tremendous loss—those streams against the skies, the falling mood-rings, the
collar with the tie, the knot, the bow, the arrows. If into a shadow, to see a
similar smile, or steep in a chill, made in darkness, flooded in essence—the humanity
of the loss, the capture of the ghosts, seated in a room, subtle disturbance,
an avalanche of miracles. At a button, the lady too wise for being smart, too
smart for being remarkable, at some planet, with one trigger. So much spinning—as
into orbit, saturated by silence, at love with propensity, so casual the last
million loses. Too exhausted to see, rapid, rolling into devastation, accursed,
or blessed, by greater the treasures. I have ambition. I have said nothing. The
reader, too, has ambition. I have a drive. I have said nothing. The reader,
too, has a drive. In sacrifice, the planet is dying, the soul has felt things
differently than others. It races and clashes and skids through intersections
in the clouds. The self is trying to accomplish the impossible.
