Poetic Penrose Triangle

 

I try to understand spirits as souls, with avenues posed as synaptic gaps. I try to love what hurts with trepidation squelching a feeling, in which, would ache, the fire of the flicker. She might in an instance the frame of the contour, in ruts bleeding the breath it might breathe. Most would oppose darkness from parent to spirit, some deep wooded exchange, never-minded of subliminal assassination. A man, an icon, died alone, gripping his chest, with miracles seeming impossible; another lost to shudders, another icon, she was never avenged; another drank a shot of Hennessey—if “strong enough to face the madness,” the pain in its helium and sadness. Solar scars, mental cemeteries, longer ranged baptism—into one gem, pleading as we perish, if but one terrifying beauty; reeling in sin, celebrating one angel, forgiving anything from one person. Alike to a dream. Alike to fiction. What is humanhood aside forgiveness!  

Asked to Look

 

Take it by closeness the guilds churning a man just ate cotton. The liquid squad such fever the dungeons, a past with straightjackets, a memory of surefire potential—told it was coming, never knew for

certainty, along a path, fires and hearts.

 

Take it by souls, sure raven gravity—those screaming welts the innocence bled unto fury, rage, vengeance—the skies falling, enveloped in terrors, was it ever up there?

 

Stolen mulatto. Asian geisha. Stories sold—

                                                                        lights in bass those on cellos most floating into wilderness.

                        European locks. Jewish heritage. African drums.

                                                                        So disconnected. It finds itself. Much in travesties—the kingdom of humans—it had to go wrong.

 

With pantomime the climb is horrid.

With ventriloquists, lips might not move.

In those feelings, dice, gambling, the sin, so hectic so sweet so much error.

 

The budget is soft—the irony is incredible—so close to illumination—the grave of the excited, the humility of the sage, the laughter of the cages.

 

Yes!

 

it went wrong – it has since its beginnings, losing as we won, hand over fist, drama knitted in traumas—the bronze in the face, the violin meaning much, the cultural slaughter of the tribes; made more problems, more disrespect the past outlined in clouds; violet pride, penalty of the turquoise rose, at anger with a flute, better, a harp—the demon as it comes, free agency, while everything went wrong; begging a question, so much begging, to ask, if the leader is in charge?

 

                                    Haphazard! Does it give meaning?

                                    Chaotic! Does it drag the person out?

                                    Clarity! Is it deceptive?

Soul of Souls

 

Too many cleats to count—too many attuned to charge, despite, rivers in skies, and holiday eggnog. To decipher each nuance, afar in calculations, too close to feel normal. Blessed at life, aged secrets, culture, specter, souls living like justice—left to determine, embedded rites, fixed repentance, those dice of men; made otiose at moments, futile in time, searching for fruitage, vine, and grapes. Most biblic souls, finding mercy, reciting Psalm after Proverb. In measuring another, there’s variance; in loving another, there’s temperament; in sensing each other, there’s mastery of mathematics, dawn in December, sunny skies left with chills.     It must have been beautiful—the training, the drilling, the nuances; it must have been intimidating—the stress, determination, the scar as it heals.      It, as in the souls of souls, the spirits of spirits, must have agendas—fretting what we see, alarmed by what’s hidden, so hermetic a galaxy in draperies.   

Human Fabric

 

Life is arbitrary rulings. That seems unfair. & it shouldn’t be true.     You have an agenda. I ponder upon the interests—thinking as we do. Somewhere low or artificial or quite natural—tides ebbing, coincidences seeming unlikely, stems sprouting in brains; a plethora of thoughts, many insecurities—they come, they show interests, they bleed into the human fabric; sour fiber, electric responses, what we speak of—is the home of what we might accomplish. Sore concerns. Most watch life—its passings, its many rules, childhood is a memory, many are recollecting. Those ferns in the silence; many parades in sadness; often, we must watch the skies, hear its tacit voice, intuit into its meaning; those dice we threw, the wagers we bet, the measures some took to keep the bounty. It becomes difficult: each word like threatening the writer; each fortress falling into speculation. Most carry a thesis of beliefs, doctoral faith, as they change with time.    

Baptism Is Introduction

 

Take honesty as a legend of souls; robust integrity as it appeals to dynasties, we seldom see facts, unless for measure. I was sitting stillness and she appeared.     I write to reach, maybe, the unreachable—maybe it’s passing limits, striking nerves, if we need from those we want. I’ve earned rites; sofas on high—power inside—voltage saying, hello! I tried to ignore myself, ignore those roses, confined to seeing more lavender; many feel essence, to dream profanity, a little makes us human. I met goodness. It seems stern. It does what’s right, despite, how it might feel.

            I’m in a rare space. Creativity is in abeyance. Those that will, have heard the battles.

            I haven’t in so long, intentional intrusion, but it seems apropos.

Most often we carry silence—the heaviest creator, secluded as it wills its nature.

You appear but you speak a different dialogue. How do I rinse the language?

Cold Coal Sitting: I See The Long Picture

 

The mental is the grip—social outcasts, cultural incidents; gods sent back, growing into a never machine, at the outskirts—trying to remember—what it felt like to laugh. We tug at exaggeration, it has become an art, like telling or selling the mathematics of eternity; it can’t happen, while wildness makes sense, most tired of the losses; shoveling nonsense, big time disrespect, like winning is assigned to a few; one thousand that sways, to hate for no reason, enlove with making suggestions. To hustle for leaves, so green in the middle, at a level envied by giants; the raw algebra, the misspelled evening, the tales told in silence—so silken, so much to believe, at measures to congratulate the underdog. I hear as they ask: “What’s being said?” Go further, bend the winds, the stone is pure jasper. Like another, writing with meaning, at an illness, so long to finally ask for assistance; never was the language!     

Written Into Existence

 

You were born humble. You took to hermetic things. You made friendship with elements, stars, minerals, energies. Mindstuff became of vital importance. Like most people, we’re shepherded by a parent religion—like some people, many branch out. It seemed evident: “How to mitigate/obliterate the human condition?” (Of pivotal concern—What’s forfeited—if it’s made possible?)

Sunflowers are witness—to ghostly pains, made in substance, somewhere inside, and neurotransmitters are bombarded with medicines:

science found salt is important to mental health.

            You learned to intervene … to overwhelm … and listen to concerns, feedback, knowing sources, thus, solidifying the authenticity of practices.

            In reality, made smarter, tremendous wits, genius in respects, mesmerized by the arms and legs of esoteria.

A cedarchest was painted with emotion. It was filled with papers, small boxes, trinkets, paperclips, magnets and such. It was filled with new wood scent. Just to be in proximity, meant to seek, to touch, to read history. There was a secret compartment. It was discovered years later. It was fraught by medallions, dried, well-kept leaves, petit dice and silverware, small binoculars, opera glasses and such.     You were there in the makings—meant to encounter us—meant to become memories: some shared, others tucked away.    

Thinking of Dynamics

 

Some are equipped to teach. Jaunting, jesting, jousting—as they do. (I hope the crocodiles don’t devour the tears.)

I knocked several times. You were unable to answer—somewhat tied to opinions, feeling bleakish, perfect, forgetful of waves, frequencies, no real substance to knit determination … an easy ride, a harsher ride, a trail of termites.

Some despise elements they can’t deceive—the fire of the lotus, those lotic winds, rescued it seemed, with typing keeping the kittens awake.

Some are equipped to teach. It requires, demands listening. (Many are carrying their beliefs—facing their faith—writing their ambition.)

Instead of manumission, many offer chains, it becomes fifty years of study, with volumes of notes plaguing what otherwise wouldn’t be full on suspicion.

Each is given technique. Each exercises technique. It is labelled. Two are doing sameness, identifying the other as wrongness. Some are equipped to see.

Negation is a skill. Remembrance is a tool. Many watched; and decided not to knock. No one likes accuracy of sight. Most love equality of sight, once mature enough to see self. A paradox at best. (I must respect you—if I am to receive your wisdom: I knocked several times, the knocks were ignored: days might feel longer, if unable to read the hands that reach in science.)

I have a time receiving unsolicited wisdom. I expect others feel the same. Blame would seem futile.

People must acknowledge, unless deafly naïve, incumbents make decisions, they have the gavel in spirit.

Most like ear-passion. Condescendingly called ear-candy. I know opposition on the inside—it requires indoctrination, something positive fed incessantly—in order to break into freedom, when possible.

In writing, propensity arrives, reach is debatable, properties seem important, maxims become challenged. In essence, to speak it in harmony, with one’s respect, never a challenge, seems more feasible—it shall always win: jotting, jetting inside, and jousting against a mudslide … it pours in, unbeknownst, many are struggling for power …

by quest … intentionality … intense misdirection … to imagine if cosmos is listening … initially repenting, prior to unsaid infraction, one might imagine a loophole.

I have been resistant. I believe, before interruption, many are seeking positive encounters; times tell a different saga, a story of intensity, a willing of powers, deep resistance in fences composed of thought patterns.

I can’t undress it—it is a riddle—the brains catch up to themselves.

Where are the feelings? They come to misrepresent at points.

Some say: “I can’t fully reach where I haven’t been.”

This is hell for some professionals—they subject the mind to pains—in order to help others … in order to hear inside those waterfalls as they splash into existence.  

Winds of Old Times

 

We might celebrate aside a creek. Searching over a notepad. Longing, maybe nonchalantly, for creativity, spice, depth of insight. The narrations, storytellers, the metaphoric nets; to have life in script, discussing clouds, heel to mud, hoofs to galloping.

Took time during birth. A bit quicker I suppose. Cut as she was.

The treasure in that moment.

We might mourn aside the creek, lemon juice to wound, traveling Egypt with similes; over white noise, maybe drumming afar, always with meaning, cadence, and such.

Pouches of memories—days at a few thoughts—Is it neglect, or failed connectivity: (it sawed at me, eclipsed me, while she made mention of dreams—the sea as its torrents, the skies raging, with one needing substance of bread—to blame is futile, it was fragile to begin with, unstable, with souls watching, tampering, pushing as some do).

Many do care. They show it. Often, drained asunder in halves.

Tugging at goodness. Forced to take sides.

Poetry

 

So addicted to it, I must forgive it, hoping it survives my death. Topaz grins, brine eyes, fiery grains—the building churning, the quake blasted, mother just arose this morning. It was coldness. It keeps chasing. They hate to see us winning! The pile of papers, the flicker of the flame, the woman laughing at nonsense. The heinous agenda the cave in our minds, the match as it flicked into space; the fireflies, the gin, the beginning with a new name. Place it on a stone, make it white, soldier, read the scriptures! Too much to feel this way. Too much reading to still feel like affected. Too much understanding to still dislike self. Pulled in. Reverberating intensity. The life of the lands of the serene. One would wish me more of the hell I undergo; one would tillage the crops of my adoration; one would take what I’ve cultivated. Each man must be concerned!  

She’s an Intriguing Mask

 

Pollen was heavy in the winds. We kept sneezing. Noses were runny. I remember fire entering, an old associate, her math in a new scientist. The gravity of the weeds, caterpillars eating leaves, tonight is both corn and beans. A soul eats starches, a few vegetables, and a palm filled with steak. So determined to ignore self—follicles filled with humanity, a wood raft in the distance; a tender mystery in periphery, metallic smoke, logistics silhouetted upon the walls; groping as it’s done, sunflowers beneath the sun, days made restless for understanding—the chase of times, baffled inside, trying to re-saddle a hunch. Hairline frustration. Refusal to see—as it stands in spaces, so close, and further apart; (dreaming my dream, lost and found in my dream, restored in my dream). Much transfusion. Captured on the insides of sanity, on the outskirts of stability. Most savage souls—seeing as it happens—churned unto inversion of self; deep soil, pebbles bled, sky spigots dripping causality.   

Phoenix Hallway

 

Upon an eagle’s feather, marble encased, pulling at boundaries; memories in personas, blending into personalities, vacations in new images.

Abounding in make-believe, Porsche passions, made incorrect in the raspberry sunlight.

Sewed in condition—arranged by a cosmic hand, stressed at an incandescent cliff—those fringes, a hawk’s tendons, more clutching an invisible warning;

made of coal, painting with charcoal, bone, skeleton, and dreams.

Over red beans and rice, buttery breads, and bacon bits; a softer song, a sin sullen voice, with dear presence.

Sore sincerity, holding gothic mysticism, harboring medieval arts. A soul with pictures inside, to sketch a terrific pain, love was once pure religion.      

Social Symbol

 

Aside gallicas the beast subsided the agony overcame the lonely atmosphere; dropping jumping-jacks, into new age music, most are suffering the human dynasty. Like fitting with an article, beef and seasoning, to pardon mistake and irony. Much intolerance, to ponder the miracles, at a tavern in the mystics; evermore heart cymbals, drums in tribal lands, warriors come back as angels. Dandruff upon pillows, dust upon the furnace, mold in moist areas—running back to self, attracted to another culture, alienated from unsaid culture. By a fight to have harmony, disdained by most, unrelenting silence might prevail; like an application, the way we follow instructions, until we rage out against social rules. At arts like religion, knitting designs, or mastering origami; like papier mâché, most delicate memories, traveling spirits with Natives.         

Metaphysical Wind Drafts

 

The sluggishness comes upon me, heavy in the anchor of blood, a mind filled with goblins. A productive day is a measured whisper, clutching to

 

courage to survive. (One makes reference to you, spitefully, knowledge says she wants something of you.) I have palmed corn,

 

gathered eggs, there’s a coyote in the distance. I have fed wolves, stacked the color of maize, and boiled cups of rice.     On a longer journey,

 

awakening to a maze, many pictures of self are strangers of self; the many bottles spinning, arriving at a portal, many tears inside craniums; a soul to

 

self, chemically uneven, to debate how old such genetics are; gazing into mirrors, amassing understanding, trying to sense the

 

different feelings.     I have left the building, headed into traffic, the highways are filled with loops, turns, thoughts, messages.     I rethought

 

the confetti, as miracles, to feel as arcs combine in cities; many percentages, leafy literature, destined for an existential career.     Upon a

 

daze, into a faux pas, unstable those moments. I asked redemption, only time was witness, to have sung many phenomena. Sold inside. Given over

to mysteries—most committees are dressed up in white, darkened by fuchsia clouds, facing ad hoc.      

 

I’ve realist paintings—of moons, influence, dance and ballet. So big the picture—with waves whirling, hearts thumping, elaborate skies,

 

elemental fires; to have sung a miracle, unsung scripture, consecrated ideals … gross oversights, internal strife, most

 

anything placed in ruins. I’d love best in chimes, fireflies floating in circles, fireballs headed to concentration.     To adore her is

 

uneasy. She has motives. Her threshold, nevertheless, is fluid, like rivers flowing, much determined, another maxim digested. She

 

betrayed sunshine, part unknowingly, nothing said remained silent, it speaks a voyage in its leakage. The manner of graves, old

 

persons, the way they perish softly, the song they sang, the singsong dilemma; a soul chasing freedom, chained to behaviors, no one quite

 

delivers to exoneration; the essence in its maps—flame in its fury—self-determination as it wanes gently.

 

By arts to have convinced soul the angle of angels fleeing the cycle; to look closer the waves are flaming, if to live as to die—the ropes of

 

silence. Malaise as it soars into opera; havens in falsehoods, personified in deliverance, with contradiction seeming to make sense;

 

purified in an instance, sullied by filthy feelings, doing well aside for sudden cravings; the pain as it simmers, a split second into

 

forgiveness, as universes sway into realism.

 

Forever to have loved in person the sorrows converted into energies; to behave in accordance to consensus, many damages in consensus, fevered

 

by consensus; sol attributes the anger of the survivor, the harsh reality in loving the one as lies would manifest purer appreciation. A town in space,

 

a metaphysical aster, so aero-dynamic—those churning in differences, to hate losing, faced by tomorrows existential.         

What They Created!

 

Losing senses, gathering dreams, please saw the skies; symbolizing demons, the angel beat his spirit, the ghosts are masturbating—all jokes aside, I wanted her with desperation, I asked her name, she sits close—the meaning of the dirt, the politician in the omen, separated from self, and gunning the heartbeat. I can’t care too much, this is contagious, most are running from feeling life.

Blue eyes had heaven. Green eyes had bravery. Brown eyes won my soul.

I need a sip. Momma crying. Granny groping walls. A woman just entered my dreams.

Hearing whatness, eating thatness, eyes teary into daddy’s life.

Nothing works. No need to apologize. “Get to the mystic.”

Losing senses, gathering dreams, sold survival, and longing into the forest.

I never gathered many in strife—as knowing from the gate, while souls harbored animosities, supposing I was living too much ash.

The little boy had ambition, quite dormant, making rounds back to family; lasting myself, a rib in me, x’d inside, on the fridges of reappearing.     Can’t tolerate my visions. I swear to come back, to get it right, to make something more deliberately.

 

They had innocence, the innocence in evil, the bible the ulcer would recite. I challenged her calmness. She ate shrooms. The microphone is on all night long.

Most died on us. More at the prison walls. Others went from handlebars to pegs, to management positions.

To meet the villain in the angel confuses most saints.

 

The tears become sweat the sweat is thick blood the prayer is screaming at God.

 

I see the machination—fermenting iniquities, as to have exonerated behavior. We might determine which attributes belong to the One we serve. From liquor to strange islands, to suffocation, to letting live the hands that bronzed me.

 

We’d believe they’d see potential and need to augment it: we’d believe an inner myth.

 

The spirit needs to put documents on the table—to read the closets—to explain to strangers—why we have the right to breathe … (if just a whiff of the ghost-towns).       

Unlikely Reverberation

 

We progressed rapidly. We can’t relax. It’s trespass and walk away. Unlikely math. Some will not waste away, nor be forgotten, nor found resting.

Armor high threads. Ecstatic seconds. Life takes turns, cascades into Africa, takes refuge in Europe; the magic of the hatred, by essence to have died, seated in silence.

Opting to release the benighted, aqua science, bled in spirit; to feel a person, disgusted by order of sequences, unknown how we mitigate weather.

If it’s pure evilness, it has become the nature, while it seems unlikely.

Aside haystacks, imagining survival, how long does one hold to unevenness? If to bargain is to sin, we stand aloof at the cliff—waving at sparrows, falling swiftly, and standing in stillness.

Wild buffalos, roaming interior, trampling habits; like thoughts carry emotion, to decide to hover, with both awakened at the hour.

With necessary art, angst, and ax—if to arrive in Uganda, plagued as we dine, debating the powers of Jerusalem.  

The Excellence In Ought

 

I see, standing at intuition, a thought becomes an image. You are proud. You are disgruntled. You are debating. Longer deliberation, ending with, “No thank you,” as contradiction unglues asphalt. I see, standing at intuition, a thought becomes an image. Some souls are vexed, ethical, obeying the nature of How we ought to behave; so colored by happenstance, hurting in nature, keeping to a set principle: “It hast to be correct, else, it’s not feasible at all”: these people are bright, well-thought out, near genius, at points, stressed, people we admire, give praise to, and try to mimic. Without shortchanging them—they are strong. I see, standing at intuition, a thought becomes an image. You are human. You are moved. You weigh each thought. It sounds daunting. It comes naturally. Each sentence follows another. Most desire you—more in private—you are up against instincts, measured by actions, no one knows how you are moved. Coming to grips with ideals; hearing the unheard; finding favor with spirits. I see, standing at intuition, a thought becomes an image. I project on actual art. I believe in something excellent. In quintessence, I knead what appeals to humanity.   

Human Nature Has a Secret

 

Mosaic frontal piece, atop marble flooring, the chimney is made of topaz and soot. In listening to you—

 

wisdom peeked and peered into silence—waltzing as it flourished, dying as it breathes, falling as it

 

stands—short rolling pains, taller anxieties, much grayness in tacit wilderness—the dense poems,

 

liberated in editing, to come across one from class; an art for stressors, nor the moon most secluded, sipping

 

sky minerals. In loving you, remaining across a continent, exaggeration afforded, with deep and

 

darker elements—infused into dreams, suffused into spines, a flowing out into the universe. To

 

have loved when it was unfinished. To have lived when it was painted. To have rights where it became

 

illegal—the serf and wand, those cultural experiences, most with history embedded in travesty. Lost

 

majestic artisan—arrested attic—by mystic myths, by lecture to have won science; watching delicate souls,

 

formed in abundant caves, threaded into a frenzy—the madness of poets, stories acted in terrors, finding

 

creativity in sudden trance; more welkin signs, arcane pangs, a secret at the core of nature.   

Projecting Interpretation

 

Myth becomes interior mirrors, mental cameras, vibrational photographs. Pictorial emotion:

 

colors and irony, dichotomy as the norm. And why have interest in essence? the frame in times—the

 

edible pieces.

You have universe You have esoteria You have life.

 

Souls often make passion in depression. Stress is unfurled.

Tiresome resistance, the last film

 

will tell the story: stressors, neurology, and stereo.

A banquet filled with doves.

 

Traveling benthic depth. Both credo and pathos.

The creed becomes effort. Religion

 

is rapturous. Life used to feel regular.

Around ponds are geese, swans

 

hydroplaning, love seems aesthetic—until it frets its logic.

Sitting at a mythic hydrant, feeling

 

what’s impossible, believing in mermaids; as it becomes simplistic, it becomes complicated, receptive to

 

gentility (we try to feel careful).

Myth is reality, hoax, and creed.

Some aren’t fastidious. Many are

 

easy moving. More walk a crucible, seek the ignescent, and debate some form of detox.  

The Universe Repeats Its Interests

 

Bathing in discomforts. An outstanding crisis. Life becomes research.     I have wondered if “I love you” is more powerful than “I

 

forgive you.”     Millions of lightbulbs—seas suffused with un-identification—the lands have long been a mystery.     Urged to squiggle,

 

through loops, alongside crevices, most impoverished adolescence. Soft noon Spanish; laughing has been painful; those days looking into her

 

crying smile.     Life has Africa & Europe, Precious & Colors, love & logic.     Many will fly. More will wrestle. Lies will progress.    

 

Sternness as a kiss, deterrent head colds, feelings shift into storms. How has passion increased? When wondering why, attributes come

 

rushing in tides.     I have wondered if love is as powerful as lust. If time is critical? I have wondered if parents stay in souls.     

Gentle Memories

 

By creative thinking, to make a soul smile, impoverished, eating (homecooked) sliders. The good die young; a most credulous soul, swooshed into sainthood. Bags of potatoes, French fries, chips, and often baked. Bacon most mornings, hashbrowns with onions. I was surprised we didn’t gain weight, at least, for a considerable measure of time. Weight becomes a pressure point. Most wrestle with that; surprised to feel changed by that; many more years to sense a dear human. Many nights aside a good feeling, a decent feeling, draped in innocence; scents wafting, ice clattering, association made meaningful. His mother was angelic, incandescent, a jewel in God’s necklace. Bewildering us, with deep pride, most were devastated by surroundings—most gentle souls. We mourned their passing. A mother with grandchildren. A soul born to become incredible.

Favor Is Innate As an Art

 

Wheeling. Made into essence. Palming

interior faucets. Opposed by greater

music.     Loving is difficult, by no

tremendous

fretting, alike to a losing kiss.  

 

Dying is whimsical; linoleum

tiles, tooth scraping tongue, misbehaved,

born to topaz mystery, achieved in

as untouched, printing souls in coconut.

 

I didn’t know normal eyes. She worked

at

it. I felt envious.     Cinnamon tints.

Elasticity reach. No one enters

 

without keys, pianos, a little humor;

watched closely, loving as freedom, a

vine in terrors, a horn correlated, a

message at sanity, appalled one may

 

exclaim comforts. Tugging at minerals.

     I noticed at seconds, with heartbeats

come chi in clouds, others are doing

channels; others are communing with chi.

 

What, if anything, a desire to

answer life?

To un-debate deeper questions?

To come to certainty on spirit?

 

I would see beauty in abstracts, aloft

a feeling made vague. I would think of

art, chi would appear, her name remains

in silence: hissing at times, buried in ink.

 

Wheeling. Rolling into aches. Remiss on

points—palming criteria, eating

unlikeness.

Rain will fall cautiously and cry.         

The Wilder Reasons

 

One soul will endure, similar to cultures, a likeness akin to tragedies.     Emotion is kinetic.     (Others will watch.)     What we call as God will erupt: people, esoteria, powers.     I was redundant in my suffering—people pointed it out; rather, eloquence of soul, was received with ambition.     I knew spirits are with us; rowdy, bawdy, or enforcing souls; to cause curiosity, to haunt adversaries, such spaces are prevalent in religiosity.     There are ways to learn.     We don’t do things accordingly.     With cultures, blood, pain, and suffering run into trenches.     Of certainty, to use what has been given, to unveil elements, to shock an opponent; true bewilderment, overrunning faucets, (an appreciation for opponents, for they give purpose to existence).     Somewhat selfish: not addicted to pain, as much as to reservoirs and offshoots—again, to have life in the one opposed.

In a softer voice, rolling in skies, lost to agendas and goals, with heaven seeming so colored; the side panel angels, remarkable occurrences, made into logical patterns … I begin to realize why most keep it to self, inside a given arena, whilst the lion is watching, roaring, humble, untamed.     Once people know, they are reluctant to speak: some raise their hands, others take notes and listen.

It was unusual on its account. It was by folly—to have become iniquitous, to have access to difficulty;

(What we forfeit for both our souls and identities!)

By light into a dark tunnel: (Most are charged with sight).

With sounding human, it spins a web, at some perception—it sounds reaching.

Indeed. One will ask for mercy. The other is concerned with power. Many of us are passionately indifferent—despite, the contradiction. We learn through feelers, tentacles, receptors.

On many levels—life is existence, and both are misleading—and both need to feel heard. 

Architecting

 

At Moments, It’s Uneased

 

 

What else to give, in harmony with conviction, announced inside? Robust assertions, along a threaded path, it hurt more to walk away. Same principles. Different grounds. Similar reasons to stay. Indebted to humans, embedded in memories, most have virtue. I’m swimming in clouds, watching myself, with much more to believe: impetuous eyes, fastidious ears, temple silence.

I forgot to undo a feeling, its language, its software; most charmed to waft a kite, and string a cello, fluting and intrigued with listening.

Bringing hearts to violin—meaning much in silence, so present, so vocal.

I knew it as it came to pass: I realized, I shouldn’t know these things; to assert, and it appear, most unacceptable cantaloupe.

Speaking to soft music, palming a lyre, asking at some distance.

I’ve discovered—people ask science: its brilliance, its detachments, its lights. 

 

Time or Person Will Unlock It

 

 

Under possession of seaweeds and wilderness and wines; sung for uncertain, staring into horizon; most don’t know, something is left to moods and mansions and motion; so engraved by adolescence, seeking, searching, eating doctrine, sullen into skies.

Learning as sounds touch ears. Never tiring those days. Feeling as others in feelings. Needless to assert invisibility. Most carry a few hunches. I watched how she went through it—water was different—wind had meaning.

            We do such a thing as we do not do. We chime soundlessly—motion moving into stillness, it’s apparent what can’t be spoken.

            I understood air, I thought—years revealed, at best, I understand pockets of information.     I see as elements appear, no one listens to that. It has an opposite tinge.

            Nannies sit and crochet patiently. Eating is human. It centers as a workpiece. Nannies cook to keep home.

It’s unique at minimal; sunshine is different. Everything becomes deeper. Taste is enhanced. Gods in each other—greet one another. Some hold such against others. In notion, another is upset, one might feel left out. 

 

 

 

 

Architecting

 

 

The building required an architect. We all knew it. Who would build, brick for brick? I didn’t contend for builder; I was quite too young. We’d watch the architects—more arguments, strange looks. Years would pass in alarm. Buildings were not sturdy. The fabrics would witness—most tragic art, penalty for love, most addicted eagles. To soar in distress—to sit in sadness, determined to dig deeper.     More is architecture, broad, big buildings, narrow, demanding paths; in song—we praise architects—by challenge of meadows, by rain, sleet, or snow—to live in construction, headed for deconstruction, trying to negotiate with architects, becoming said architects. As spirit, the art is building, laying foundations, musing on the work of palms. To create music in structure, becoming what was built, all-together excited to build.