The picture is fuzzy; fighting thoughts, a losing war, so, I pause, sweltering, it’s getting easier.
I see a portrait, a lady is somber, newly married, the family adores her.
Her outfit is neat, businesslike, all beige, even her stockings.
She looks liquid. If he desires it, she palms winds, struggles against rain, covering
skies.
Let it be life.
Too bright. Too smart. Too gifted.
Up against a problem, a miracle, plain insanity; it gets into flesh, it crawls through veins, it makes a facial appearance.
I watched. It baffled me. So many beautiful memories, undercurrents grieving,
no misprints, just wondering.
So wonderful. Such a big ass smile.
To sense glory.
Laughter permeating the room. So piercing.
Lately, I’ve been tugged, seeing a portrait, asking myself questions: most importantly:
Am I missing something?
Indeed, life is spiritual, spirit makes riddles.
I can’t war against goads.
I hope at best it’s workable.
Or some parts are adorable.
I keep seeing it—upon a remote island, remaining tacit, a little too talkative in ink.
“If it is what we presume: Can it breathe?”
Too much of what uplifts become barriers.
A keen mind fathoms and pities us.
And some creature is anti-morals, living good and unstable.
So balanced means a little lonely.
