We desire an antidote for pain, an
anecdote for humor, certain vileness has become me; an axiom remains lonely,
until paired with a sentence, until given voice, even when the sun is out of
commission. Surefire candor is remarkable and off-putting and it touches the heart.
Of a caste so enthralled, so adverse, needing it to topple into the moon; the
credence of the glow, the mimicry of the needy, as to fit with souls said first
in line. Some venture inside, some castle afar, so much a child of Rumi—and that
remains controversial. If to surpass prejudice, to infuse pride, to play on
piano—the taller trees, the zinnias in bloom, the nemesias hiding in blossom.
To outsoar in converse, to leave alone the vagueness, to infer—it isn’t what it
feels like—it is its opposite—woe to doing the good works in vain.
