into the timeless
maze, traveled by each generation, the pain of the bull-headed, the mystery of
the structured. i see it. it looks like misery. the being affected by anything
moving. such good people. the kind we might adore. the pain we might share. i
would give more, if only i could—with the sorrow of holding back. it all hurts,
no order given, chasing the British fox. to dine with wolves, like innocent
people, it might go the wrong way; wolves with their own, coyotes with their
lineage, humans with their sage nature. we will get it, by survival, by advice, and
the dingoes are running through the countryside; the last to agree, the first
to argue, this is too much for most. i
looked at it, how beauty is commodity, nothing is actually beautiful … it never
ends, it’s never satiated, the dreams are met by silence … when it arrives, we
know it’s running, it might not be there in the morning. unnoted. unnoticed. held like life is
ending. sweltering passion, in
passing fretting goodness, my amore, my soul, it hurts to love you; watching
the cycle, needing it so alarmingly, the sensational gloss, admiration, a soul
desiring worship: if i submit, is there a guarantee? … as never another, if
receiving like a goddess, shall all others be forsaken? in many instances the answer is, yes. the
gamble is social, one on alert, we must reassure each other—in a world designed
by insecurities. the opus into the circuit—the
wide souls, the slender souls, is it longevity with the nature that keeps
coming? else, or even if, so numb, such soil, life becomes one grand koan.
