We needn’t wail so loudly, a mere
myth, sound moves invisibility. Rumors say The Lord listens, give us an ear,
prayer made in emotion. A soul denies this, cleaves to something concrete, has
disdain for abstracts: our explanation, to jettison a feeling, making aphorisms
for naysayers. I will drift, sudden into contagion, with spirit lighting the
crowd—swept away, the fears of the beginning, as called occults, on page
Infinity—the pains we enjoy. Rhythm in its blues. Much gravidity in the
language. Wallpaper made of faiths. No matter resistance, souls will continue
to chase, unravel, muse upon silence, get loud, praise The Almighty! I will
drift—thinking as it aches, as it throbs, gripping Invisibility for comforts. Out
of squalor—roaming record stations, listening to guitars: built for drama,
enduring trauma, laughing over fries and soda pop. Call it serenity prose,
oatmeal for dinner, or the likes of a good breakfast; to ask why, the favor,
after its suffering; to dine on miseries, part indifferent, still concerned,
still affected, like souls in Limbo. I will drift, I suppose, asking for hands
in The Great Walk! By hope to win a God Voucher, to touch a face, to pass by a
shoulder—a photo of it, austere miracle, mowing spirit, sewing excellence, each
step hurting, just needing to sin, with nothing more than experience. Jagged
walks, stirred hells, family condemned, near reprobate, good ignorance
vitiating itself, its claims, angered to wake fire. Some jigsaw reality, trying
to decode a riddle, asking to feel The Big Picture! At a sad tree, eating
apricots, at the winepress, pressure to existence; dressing beliefs, undressing
doubts, following winds. Upon a sting, losing its ray,
an inner entourage of angels—faced by insanity, to have lived through it, like
remnants don’t persist, changing personality, What a soul would have become! Those
alienated joys, always at desire for what could have become—not quite present
with what is! I plague a Tower, roam with instincts, debating like I shouldn’t,
asking like it matters, attempting to shift stubbornness. The Book is wide
open, over a trillion names, the Flame is big, made mighty, secure in its
judgement, listening to soundness. I noticed it. I travelled old streets,
visited old apartments, similar faces, different spirits, not so different the
people—those corners, those poolhalls, the children, the pain palpable, the art
emphatic, the discussion dubious. What is reason when it doesn’t awaken? — water
courses, debate classes, pertinent to survival, never a listen, never a walk,
left to interior sadness, left to inner discussion, left to paranoid
assessments—not many are unaware. I will drift at seconds—parading some
precious soul, everyone watching, celebrity in its squalor, pressure to war,
holding something partly on par; many wonder as they wander, asking for
impossibility, as she sings, as she hunts, like a lioness, such eyes, filled
with hunger, needing the best of the silence. I will drift …
