Praising is a channel, as nearby, as closer than
proposed. First knowledge and knocking, then love and conviction. To heal
spirits, souls, to triumph, to fail—to placate. Adoring in faith—by calls near
wells, by luster, lava, and surrendering; if to soar, eyes radiant with health,
aside a spirit unzipped, made bear for the world to examine. Multiple levels:
if she were to say it, they’d chastise her also; a man is left with suspicion,
second guessing, until it reveals itself (no one hast to know). Looking at shoulders—so alive in an
instance, makes a person praise the talent—the gods in another person. In
appearing one is invisible, and watching for closure—it never arrives. The
fever is Our Father; the compassion in Our Mother; the magnitude of the expectant—to
still move forward, as history has determined us to; moreover, candy canes,
trees and such, more invisibility, seated in sight, removed from the
audience—sure geometry, to wrestle over symbols, and wonder, why is it suddenly
important? Neither good nor bad—as
determined in styles, it comes, nonetheless: praise of harmony; discontent with
humility; pure presumption, jealousy, and concern; wherefore, many have joined
what first oppressed them.
