Ships Keep Sailing

 

Into alignment, drifting into fantasies, to see and sense likeness; parents dying, souls with splinters, Love with ambition; churning into magic, livid a last call, moving through disappointment.

 

Paramystical, paralogical, sensing myself in motion, a slight separation, opening eyes, like ten seconds late; as movies reveal, parascience, palatial skies, neurotransmitters—someone, like a ghost, trespassing a synaptic gap.

 

Many shook light, weaved transgression, desecrated life, self, honor, respect.

 

Souls couldn’t fathom my logic; in saying it, most were offended, now most are experiencing it.

 

Never cared much, losing belongs to us, it’s not a reflection on me—

In a dream, tossing turns, to see it, to sense it, paranormal unreality, many denied it would occur.

 

They never presumed it. They lived by a curse. So existential, praying for dead souls; indeed, scriptural, sculpting, crosspollination, down and out, feeding on miseries.

 

Like destined to be an under-hound, each valley another challenge, given much—to have little.

 

Shared half.

 

One says: you two are untraditional.

In return, one says: in essence, entwined in spirit, moving in motion.

 

To say it is to become hated.

 

Humans prefer to live it.

 

Despite it hurts, leave another’s business alone.

Into alignment, drifting into fantasies, to see and sense likeness; parents dying, souls with splinters, Love with ambition; churning into magic, livid a last call, moving through disappointment.

 

Focused on something dear to arcs. Not a mention of it. Can’t say it was said. Just in stars, on wings, hearing birdsongs.

 

No urgency. More persistence.

 

As it becomes, keep it silent—even when, body myth doesn’t count.

Innocence or Phantasm

 

Lunarias flood gardens. Insistence becomes symbolic. An impression on brains.

Artistic curses, threshed, winnowed, regathered again.

It isn’t impossible. It seems reality in twain.

Most concerned over the matter: to have lived a lifetime, to have met several, to settle for prose.

Not fair!

Ironic existence, higher caliber, pushing an issue.

It reaches beyond its existence. It goes back in time. It has a futuristic flavor, a historic soreness.

With days in rain, smaze wafting, hours aside smokestacks.

Clouds as guidance. It goes further back.

Sweet opaqueness, soothing nebulosity, eyes filled with potions.

To awaken, no otherness to it.

One says: I wake him up.

One says: It’s platonic.

He says: Is one able to let go?

It, most often, resembles research—this is what we do to souls we disregard: humans vs. items and things.

Either way, treading seashores, mingling and moving, to have one, to know for authenticity, bothered, for it should mean more, while it meant nothing in essence.

Thus, persistence!

Humans are fairer creatures, subject to behaviors, in loving one, there’s a need to separate meanings, else, surefire rain.

Hear it or discount it: reality catches up to itself.

A sacred space, a sanctum, to arise in spirit, to arrive in soul, forced to sense self, to count waves as they bend, against songs remaining sadness, to imagine innocence.  

An Unhoused Man

 

He was a dusty-clean warrior: ragtag clothing, a generous heart, a fierce temper. He would aid a soul, cleanse his clothing, help him bathe, tend to him in his wheel chair, and endure his epithets. An invisible soul, an avoided soul, a homeless soul. It meant life to do meth, a heart with a ticker, legs infected with fungi. I’d converse with him, he’d search my eyes, and respond to my spirit—to mirror me, to mimic me, waiting on SSDI. He had plans—to get an apartment, to help a friend, to get an operation—on both legs and his heart. When angered, he could be a locomotive, a little frightening, eye-to-eye, negotiating, talking down a hurricane. He’d face suppression, but never a stifled voice, filled with wisdom, full of emotion. A gentle spirit, a giving soul, afflicted by poverty. May he rest in paradise. May sunshine find his aura. He is remembered, immortalized, made into a mystic aftermath.    

Feral Woods

 

By a dream into madness, one last dance. At his hedge, redeeming his cliff, born to survive. He meddled with energies, sped through demons, secluded in a little box. Never knew a name, felt in senses, never understood a lady in her den. Cauldron pains; wicks for mantles; working less at it. He tried for extraordinary, if to impress another race, with days waning into darkness. Sheer urgency, every move is imperative, like a mind suffering its fears. If possible, many would destroy happiness, that vague creature, with her million rules; so compared, at every angle, dripping into a puddle, mere mire, filthy mud, winking at another death. Too tired to battle, too warn out to fight, one might slap the hell out of him. With rudiments, with spirit roulette, sacrificed time & again; cursing his birth, laughing at inevitability, like a man maddened by skies. Turning corners, listening to his spirit, knowing time becomes a heckler. Fueled by graces, wondering why, as a soul must be part with & part without. By a dream into sadness, a cave with sages, like ruined in rebirth. So great a contradiction, losing himself, becoming some creation. And many will outthink him, as too, he will outthink himself, if a soul wanders down such a path. Last voice, darkness swarming, bats laughing, to awakening in a world made of gold.

 

Drawing Pictures

 

I swear it ain’t easy, livid with self, many years devastated. I thought of you, many boundaries, sure felt deception. I thought of you, scientific, emotion with purpose, yogi designed, shaman taught, sagic eyes.

 

Life with clients is different than life at home; they crosspollinate, however, skills come to surface, consciousness is extreme, wondering at moments, never fully active, nothing like becoming human.

 

Differing degrees, pagan undertones, powers associated, reading into it—those with scars—a sure undercurrent; things we never suggest, never say, walking, looking backwards, wondering, it never was!

 

I was sickness, bled of Christ, negotiating with interior spirit; I was sick, never can say it, it seems many were aware; dungeon deep, deceived once too many, hard to trust what a man has disgraced: I wonder how we rest.

 

I swear it ain’t easy, if souls were privy, they’d lose consciousness.

 

Over around a haystack, those brains, so lethal; asking for mercy, calling one holy, some sick ass problem; one needs to feel dangerous, manic, irresistible, not merely in some mirror, meant for groveling, when science has proven her

 

point.

 

People are young. True science incorporates it all. With naysayers forging signatures.

 

I swear it ain’t easy: looking at it, a man will love a soul—as she has children elsewhere.

 

I’d rather wake up, hurt a little, drawing pictures in a dark cellar.

There Remains a Tale

 

when sunny those nights, when colorful sweet darkness, when holy & fretting dolor—to have life, in dear complexity, wishing it could be written … if to possess essence, a dream in a vision, a pearl in a diamond, such comforts—asking—how are they located?

 

some seem destined for uneasiness—others seem fretted by luxuries—either/or, to come to a space, confronted by interior, intestinal mirrors, greatest of tragic sins.

 

it might determine as it does. she might be in there, part of psychology, as one put it—there’re many worlds inside.

 

upon seeing her, some gaze, deeper than a glance, her eyes low, aware, without a turn of affects—it was reasonable.

 

in rumor it tells, a pillar of community, a celloist with spirit, a silent compulsion, giving to exist.

 

in core person, a need for others, as others need her; art in charity, pain in resistance, aesthetic in assistance. said to give excellence, to need nothing, in truth, beauty in countenance, flame in aura, watching, un-thrilled upon its surface. to remain silent. an intense pause. nothing awkward.  

 

motion in its tides, those hearts like oceans, a flower as a whisper—

to say something with nuance, sudden into it—to have said it too much.

 

nothing about it is compelling, as we often fib; nothing to it will flourish, it becomes normal, just different souls, as we often fib; nothing in us, just psychical presence, to become consciousness, at level, soaring into a picture.

 

in not writing it—something was written. too sleepy at times, not as in rest, as in preoccupation—ignoring a tale, seeing but unseen, or seen but unseeing—concentrated on interior, moved by motion, to realize a kindred soul.

In a Whisper

 

like silence is loud, not a big mystery, illumination & art. with inevitability with science, I swear it’s understood.

 

twain scenes, whished for cars, thirsty, made hungry, born with color—

you

must know about it, it’s not a secret.

 

at a flicker to a flame, at a field of locusts, at a U-turn & looking

at reality, moving in motion, & calling Illuminati.

 

maybe Sheba is much too much, more ambitious at points: she wasn’t meant but intended but

aesthetic. In remaining by grace.

 

to know what is lived: to sit at a campsite.

 

beyond symbols—beyond truly—beyond flesh: dipped, cleansed, musky wilderness, bathing memories, ever washed.

 

I’d try at it, Rumi inspired, I’ve a task, to learn trust—I expect mistakes, I’m repentant to it.

 

not for what it was, what it seems to be, asking plainly: what is it?

 

each assigned to a slot, breaking it, if possible, most know this.

 

winter brings a cycle to closing. spring gives birth to selfsame cycle. oh furious flickering, silent loudness, interior pictures, tableaux skies, xylophonic angst; if living is beautiful, if pains are natural, what’ve healing? if permanence is myth, what of change? what of suffering? I’ve sung a song, for oh so long—

lacking in love, abounding in charity, a full pledged paradox—

Just a Gamble

 

when we met, in which direction, blasted & terrified, holding character.

rising in a singsong voice, abandoned to fantasy, give a soul his purpose.

never as it could upon an island; never as winds crocheted in silk, those clouds knitting.

music grieving him, it was gorgeous, keys & symbols, stars & dropping.

to make a soul feel, to assert justice, to need breaths, accursed for seeking.

 

i couldn’t, with fretting emotion, sitting at a bench, looking as a foolish bird—so hungry, by width of his days;

 

travail unto exhaustion, mesmerized & cautious, to presume, it meant rain, it ached to an inner tear, rending spirit asunder. indeed, we don’t move elements, accustomed to heights, no jest—i’d sin to ear it.

 

pulling from a curb, looking in my rearview, to imagine it coming;

stabbing gently, moving at a pace, floating, feeling like he’s driving.

 

when we met, i’d peruse aesthetics, style of graces, deeper thoughts; to see a portion, always defensive, protecting self, many came to ruin goodness. (things we say inside, if true or false, they help to perpetuate life.)

 

at a sign in those waves, never with accuracy, requires more of a sun-mind;

with many it was half of nothing, more of winnings, everything on a five.

 

upon jasper blues, unto sunshine, found in memories—those jasmine lenses, a purple heart, those organic flickers—

Thin Line

 

In trying to find us, muse or ruse, if to walk a thin line. Morning came rushing in. Rain was a flood. Ploughing was necessary. 2 oxen for salvation. A mule for baptism. Old time country, New World pains, to sit at a meeting—with walking to and fro. Such legit craft, such a mean location, with dice rolling snake eyes. Never understood how we adore, how we love, with so much to win; a tender anguish, an outlandish rule, a web to hearts—holding on to myths, fabricating fantasy, if to feel life. To see signs of us, to dispute those signs, to fret a piece of another man’s dynasty—

like roses are immortal, like precious understanding, to have met so many of us. So thin its line, so close its memories, looking at her, unspoken tension, our war becoming psychical.

 

Gallicas in season, tulips said low, zinnias at a gate—fences, flame, swords: “Are you hungry?”

Many lenses, internal binoculars, at moments, a ventriloquist—fate of the division.

Most uncanny occurrence—most understandable cosmos, most tragic what we see.    

Odd Cosmos III

 

we feel pain, it’s obvious, can’t become smart and not be affected. I was a foolish soul, madness in his guts, couldn’t articulate the misery. damned and elitist, so cured, such a lie, it became normal. it’s different in ghettos, nothing affects us, everything is black, and we adore it. so close, unlocked, cultural pride; soot, crops, harvests, my life! I was tripping harder, I mostly did, it means so great a liquor glass. to have honesty, to give more, to gain a perspective, as opposed to perspective. but deep and dark anguish, to arrive so early, to have riches. I just speak it—not needing much, life becomes basic ingredients, when priding in Spirit. maybe a slightly more, maybe in London, maybe back to Africa, I doubt they’d desire me! Maybe to Bethlehem, to see sights, to tread where greats have died. to imagine another vein, to lead an entire peoples, denied, after pure worship, I fear this! many will be in a situation: sheep or goat! and that’s a stressor, to have never known what life has given into.    

Odd Cosmos

 

another was in rains, pitched to wolves, of culture those rules with sorrows; a picture as a study, a mind as trained, so close to whispering for mercy. in dying it was glorious; in travail kneading rituals, ploughing intuition. to need what never comes [surprised?]. with normality bled dry, many wrestling over normality, some damned position. I was policing my thoughts, feuding with family, so many despising my endeavor: [Only Spirit!] don’t it mean some strangeness of affectation? nay, it means less than nothing. just souls indicted—livid in existence, eating existential hells. by utility, right? to grow to see, right? a damn ruse! we have nothing more than our sewing fingertips. I met a woman, they say she’s a trophy wife, she just stared at me: I finally said, hello. She mouthed some smart thing, we parted ways.

Damned & Dumb

 

Gentle atop a scar, bars in brains, lethal like damages; accursed to know us, to elate a star, like losing became beautiful.

 

I was twelve, mother was ceremony, to worship his mother; so absent those years, fully present, disrespecting God, trespassing Commandments.

 

Fifteen was passion, a first lady, thrust & desecrated; so close it ached, torn by confusion, one carries over into another: there must be closure.

 

Intense honesty fails, to desire a dream, to live like perfect—thrashing reigns.

 

If to smother excellence, bleeding grief, to exist his body—afloat a decade, tears falling, needing in determination—

if to repent, if to bring essence to life, with so much hanging on breaking freedoms.

 

I was seventeen, tender desecration, existence became foreign; to push, pull, & tug at brains; to garden like hatred, filled with fuels; and watch naivety, it hates opposing dialectics, a true infection.

 

If I could erase you, with all this growth, I’d be ten-years dumber.

The Magic of You

 

With clarity I see what isn’t spoken; a far away dream, an island with splinters, identity made unclear.

In dealing with you, I notice consistency, I notice an unclarity.

With freedom comes graces, with clarity comes pains, in seeing you, I notice pegs, thorns, essence as it probes us.

By certain mirrors—to sing in soul, a place harnessed by winds.

In a vision of you, dear dark beauty of you, days are verboten.

Pedestals of you, interior diaries with you, fretting you.     In detailed landscapes, wings on high, tigers made humble, to have sung a dream.

I see what isn’t spoken, to enlighten waves, to locate innocence.    

Make It Purple

 

Ghosts in his attic. Curses in his veins. Trying unluckily to ski passed demons. Early darkness. Precious pains. Catch him falling into liquor. So assailed. Moving

 

slowly. Met Love at an endless wound. More to watch. Wisdom by drugs. A soul sparked a Newport. Beats ravish souls. Drums are primitive. Tribe for tribe. Life for

 

sin. Given to one day cross over. Hailing Excellence! Something bigger than humans; pain becomes a ship, its perception, all that he can muster. Checking for art, hearing

 

sages, it begins to sound sameness; of old, so wiser, out of place in reincarnation—floating in a Wagen, at a stop sign, tears for the future. Ghosts in his attic. Women in his

 

visions, fretting over polite initiatives. It can’t go lower? Wonder about these days. I ask can a soul outlive his agonies? With visions of foreign faces; with anguish

 

dissipating; as it appears in a rushing river—what’s behind emotion? How can another, by invisibility, make another shed oceans? Another secret. Another death. To have

 

powers meant to betray deeper skies. A product of indifference, souls not caring, another as a seed—so desecrated, so abused, so wise—as it means much more to the

 

receiver. God gave a man his name; a woman was first to become wise; most have an issue with brilliance. I feel it growing. I run into it. It chews me up—spits me out—

 

laughs in my private mirror. So maniacal. So sane. Like missing a link between here and then. A contrite man, a bawling soul, asked for gentility; face as a grimace, a

 

spirit as a flower, by petals to have arrived. A mirage as friend, no one to surrender to, earth as empty, souls embodied by illumination; ascetic grains, wheat with

 

peanut butter, candles bleeding intentionality; solitary for a moment, not searching, to have located family. The prison of existence, empowered horses, to

 

achieve a level of innocence, always infected, life depending upon hospitality. By crucible. By irregularities. By promise, suspicion, need. If to die a lethal

 

wisdom, or to arise a valued soul, with trillions at warmth for wise souls—praying to whom, activating energies, sending intelligence with fire; a gifted

 

mistake, a problem for millions, a walking, living religion. Mind can become walls. An omen becomes a promise. Dying should be respectful. To siphon integrity. To adore

 

one soul. If living could return a fraction of promise. Sure in hope, dialogue waning, Love asking for entrance—shall life answer its calling? Those dusky skies—the filthy

 

moon—sun tolerates infractions, waiting for healing, permitting passion to run amuck. A firkin of roses, a gallon of decency, a kilometer of wines; a fleece

 

carrying a person, those practicing mind-arts, so much incumbent upon one practicing magic. Bowing to power. Laughing because it hurts. Eyes swollen

 

with miseries. A feudal soul, a ruining at life soul, a promise of the great eternity. A plan has become controversy. The amatory has become irresistible. By charge to meet one.

 

By angst to avoid same flame. Initiated as a promise to darkness. Trying to bless a man. Trying to give him life. In turn, failing to announce—it will cause hell.

Against a Current

 

Upper regions, upper tombs, to awaken more—it’s never by one take, refill film, retake existence.

 

Wild animals tamed. Years to excellence. Still unhealed, doing better.

 

It takes time to shift it. One element in cosmos, one take is a rare instance.

 

Ah! I remember those sharks. I remember pain wrote that.

 

Maybe a pet, a tarsier, too exotic. Maybe souls are rich in culture. Maybe today is good.

 

I’d go for unhidden instead of forbidden: one compels more.

 

Slowly growing newer senses—muddy inside, cleansed inside, if I’d shift perception.

 

While stars are on hooks, while sunshine is gentle, we’d fair well to plan.

 

–

 

“To above, or inside?”

 

“I’d imagine to broaden some scope of what is unseen.”

 

“What is a backstory?”

 

“Infinite regression.”

 

“When do we pause?”

 

“When answers match evidence?”

The Coming

 

Some were astute creatures, filled with Law, quite famed inside.

Many would live its naturality, its secrets, its mirth, its city & rain.

Ox in fields. Men to ploughs.

Prophecy is utmost importance.

Suffering by Israel, or One sent by God?

When debate is contextualized, it becomes harder to claim rightness.

It’s different when looking at a signpost,

Much in hearts, cisterns spouting, crops growing.

Dearest chaos arouses needs.

Why silence?

When prophecy is lingering, souls create a path. Those

Astute made waves in those days.

In edifice, in distress of its pillars, to seek as sought, to need, silence

Leads to exploration: one must step forward.

Indeed—Truth or Structure?

Scholars might differ on topic. What happens when elements

Compliment something written?

In much worship, practices & prophecy, they align.

By habit of culture to know one part, by madness of a prophet to know another part, by excellence to put pieces in a straight line.

Either/or, suffering by ecstasy was widespread.

Souls are filled with hope—trials are numerous, drought & famine.

Cosmic occurrence is true wrestling.

To have an experience, contemporaries will challenge it.

In a time, sky-voice, smokey clouds, return from death, many aches.

Messiah was a triumphant understanding.

One is coming!

Period!

Determination, as given in humans, we might move swiftly.

Distinguished as Christ, The Christ, relies on fulfilment of prophecies.

An ache becomes belief, not as some measure, rather as an

Instrument of Faith. Belief is a participant, it is asphalt, it is sister & brother of conviction.

Scholars will beg to differ, to grapple with walls, to converse with studies,

Remaining aloof from absoluteness, in an abstract universe.

In knowing something is there,

We struggle to conclude it.

Experimental Prose

 

It makes little ripples—it means what it meant, it becomes formidable, a galaxy in a box, a world in a rose. To see as butterflies, to laugh like chimpanzees, to hunger like romance. I was a child. It wasn’t correct. Enough of that!

To meet in dreams, to awaken reaching, to adjudge others with visions.

Not too overt, not too subtle, just enough to draw conclusions;

a map to a mind, a coyote to a sheep, a deer at a pond, a panting lioness; fueled for existence, loving as it churns, to become addicted to what’s natural:

to know its design, to know nothing, to unvet a paradox, to become a contradiction, as put into devices.

 

Today of days:

Tomorrow of memories:

Sound of, it was.

Father’s Day

 

wishing upon feverish heat, Titan rain, proud to meet him. crawling in a crib, those first years, those patchwork whispers. slain it seems, cherry blossoms, needing more wisdom—a hungry soul, to find sin, nestled at a dream. I’d imagine a darkened earth, concentrated on good times, it was sullen and sweet; those eyes, filled with advice, those hands, filled with divinity. to honor a portrait, to take a torch, to do piano & sacred guitar—location, it would perish, crib tossed out, a new bed, tucked in by mother, laughing over tales, father, a legend in times. Those first years, tearless raindrops, glowing treasure, cultic connection. I’d imagine rubescent sunrise, a serious soul, full of victuals—vivid essence, violet memories, tucking pain inside. oh fortunate souls, to learn jumping jacks, to sing a quintet, with a sister on her way, to become classical—when it was done, life was violin, days were violas, sung to neighboring skies.  

Extended Family

 

He knit a family together, weathered by diabetes, seeming to borrow time, never much discussing excellence, a strict disciplinarian.

He was celebrated in slums, known as an undercurrent, he looked hagridden, while walking slowly, holding his abdomen.

She was his wife. She would outlive him. In such, to deteriorate rapidly, by spirits in smiles, by ghosts in laughter.

I wore some inadequate outfit. Her funeral was that day. “Your mother didn’t take you shopping?” Of course, I nodded my head side to side.

I would have loved her pond, waxed with eloquence, a second in a teenage life.

Certain sky fog.

Gatherings came to a stopping. A quilt was unthreaded, unknit, a slum of folks lost its lifeline, inevitable became ominous.

We might we thought, as to keep in touch, thirteen years sacrificed. Never fathomed four chairs would have history, an old flask would strike a memory, a dream makes an impression, then disappears.  

Immortal Chase

 

I wonder what feels incredible—without repercussion, endless, fortified by existence? I wonder what exists where it can’t be defiled?

Grappling over thoughts, torches inside, they’re of mixtures.

Iron gravity. Gravid reality. Neural sunrise.

Under sublime interior, topaz skies, to sense an arrangement between souls. Violet loquats.

Such flux of an imbalance, many illusions, a writhing pendulum.

It will be tremendous.

Many lost reality—palming pictures, facing forbidden beauty. Insistence as resistance. To insist is to resist an image.

We give rooms a title, furniture a sentiment, and humans a number, a position. Mastery of anything might be mythical.

Many sensations, to have engaged majority, rawness of souls, darkness imploded, to have rapture, light, to have peace.  

Determined Forces

 

We might into discussion, arriving in dialogue, sustaining wilderness—caged in personality, rivaling mirrors. True to his curse, vibrant in mind, adrift in spirit. To trespass is to transgress, some measure of imposition, some paradox, a sky of catacombs. When walls fall, when people decide on realities, negotiating with conscience—it meant so little, emotion rules, under a guise called, intelligence. We might into discussion, meeting existence, refilming narratives, eating lamb. We might not, with weather rushing in, serenading holiness, feeling awkward.

A longer road. Truth is what souls will. There’re reasons to discount convictions.

True to her curse, radiant in mind, aloft in soul, sunlit in spirit. It never correlated. To look upon another, to adjudge his intestines, with him, silently disputing true worth.

Mulberry pie, mango aroma, treading through shrubberies. So much to give when hurting—so little examined when cheerful.

Twigs

wires—

delicate essence, perpetual agitation, to have insights, to exploit souls dying.

Dear Witness,

 

Many more shall come—framed by belief—many will become specimens; ghosts aside, phantoms driven, to imagine what a soul speaks about; no greater your foundation: hunches, assertions, fragments, beliefs. I was hungry; I was appeased; I became unclear—facing music, paying attention, asking questions to an inner judge. A soul spoke God to me. A soul was agitated. I dared not to provoke him. Faith is often fragile.

I’ve understood something slanted: Differences.

Was sicker. It lingers. I wonder about dynamics: perception is color coded.

We find claims—we debate over evidence.

To meet her is a project: orientation, brain maneuvers, categorization. I never asked much, once afflicted, everything seems to irritate. Most of us have pet-peeves—little irritations.

We lost souls, feeling mitigated, walking aimlessly: brewing sunshine, competing at all times, souls find a reason to live.

It isn’t fancy. It just steadies in pathologies, at a point to wonder more. I never answer it.

Mental apogees. Linguistic challenges. Native born.

You found each other: her, a mother, you, some type of parent;

you each passed assessments, laughed at points, a rough ride.

            In a middle exit, seated in a chair, rooms blend, people talk, it seems similar, sameness of activity, sameness of assessments.

            Never owned self. Never figured him out. Self manipulates self.

            (I didn’t create the understanding.)

By puppeteer, to imagine position, one will see you, that one will exploit you.

            Sung soulfully, taught to sin, I can’t remember my first lie.

He showed pains over steeling fruit. I was amazed. Years passed. I grew disgusted.

            A father destroyed his son—he took his life—over an argument.

            A mother sinned against her daughter—her daughter is trying harder.

More shall come—framed by belief—many will repeat what has been learned.

 

I seldom confront it. It seems senseless. It has meaning. Wraiths, we say. Feelings bleeding. Puffing ignorance. Not a pun. More something we never speak. A pond at a park, a pigeon made crafty, a serenity art. Language connects us. To imagine psychiatric jargon. We become comfortable looking at reflections, or dearly uneasy. After a time, I need to walk further.

Darkness is ever present. Enlightened darkness. Withering darkness. Astute, intellectual darkness.

I seldom let it rest—unfastened dogma, deep indoctrination, deeper rivers, a forest on deserts, a child asking for something, an adult watching skies.

She had help dying. No one is claiming that. Life is passing by. In feeling, one might realize something is missing. In emotion, one might require logic—if to sort through caves. If she might find peace.