a fragment of
freedom, chances chastise the freedom, given winds to comply and obey. a
civilized war, the interior pressing forward, asked a question, and lost
innocence. the climate begs the question, most identify as stricken, many more
have souls determined as orphans. i imagine genetics are old, like pressing
into antiquity, else the splice wouldn’t be; facing a tigersnake, thinking
harder, dancing a plaid race; clown work, clown dreams, liquor chased—running
to a carnival, listening to skies, thunder hit the sequoia. quite unhappy at
times, close to my living angst, the grace of the spirit that passed by …. was
bitter, now sullen, surrendering to spaces—participating in my fate. much over
new wine, and new vats, watching closely, missing many nets—the snares of the
phantom, executing in color, the stage is filled with freedoms. an aura like
that, a body like that, and we have seen more beauty in a cobra. so put
together, so gathered, so free—as born for poison, or alive doing wickedness,
such a change in us. now an old timer, still outstanding, the body just keeps
aging. and we enter serenity, fretting the last thought, we learn to ignore
activity—as the soul swarming the body, the body feeling unfree, the
inclination cuffing itself.
