Most pass over time, sullen and worse—the sun isn’t
marvelous; nature is cold, aloof, hesitant; too long in reserve, too uncouth to
swim, life should be beautiful: armor and weapon, charm and illusion, trying to
feel certain securities; by candlelight and chandelier, wines trickling, breads
crisp and warm; some slave to it all, bundles of personality, a miracle to have
lived.
Most exist with fervor, zest, radiant enthusiasm.
Some are in a little, and out a little.
One sings a tune, surprised others are listening, so
easy to tell a mood-story; delicate sunrise, watching as time evaporates, to
mimic it, never to regain it.
Those outrageous climaxes; some call it love; nothing
veers left nor right. Upon fluffy feelings, what secures existence, to speak
universal languages.
