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.
