By gentility of petals. By promise. Days are with violence. The kingdom suffers. In meandering through briers, I arrived at a shadow: You have died before. Such a dictum; unless for rabid undercurrents, a tamed beast, a subdued wittiness. In putting time to silence, becoming a heartbeat, moving through invisibility. And Father is with wrath, we must attend the unsealing. So much becomes of a voice, an imprint, associated thoughts. I noticed you were with sadness, so beautiful the blooming, treading and circling through shrubberies. He must be resilient. With all one will experience. Having seeds adds another portal. I was agitated with you. You were peeved by my non-behavior. Plus, you carry predispositions from long ago. Notwithstanding, a soul was with violence, watching himself, affected by society’s response. Over those plains, with deeper reality, we carry a strange curse. It becomes an impetus, blotches of imageries, assorted beliefs, even private dispositions. In not seeing a person, we expect the person to vanish from consciousness, not to intensify. And there is nothing present—in the sphere of souls, nights and days, years and months. I knew you would cringe, so I never appeared. I wonder if it is us that scramble, or I with an affliction of comforts. Life as it appears. Tulips as they evaporate. Lies to self, thus society, therefore a dearth of honesty. While I meander, I come to a truth, existence is compiled by desire, and lusts are monitored.
II
With trying to unthink you, I bumped into consciousness. With him there is closure for you. I ponder the best of a person’s ambitions, if they see flourishing with company, and lay dormant with solitude? I never heard your voice. You kept that from me. You knew it would become a debate, a dispute. With time, we drift further into an orbit, consciousness nonetheless; so great a firework, so much firebrand, so curious to such aloof connectedness. It must drive a soul; to writhe inside, to write it out at times, to cherish ink. By treasure to have come to awareness, some gift, a blessed curse, a violin on high—sheer infernos. In the meandering I come to feel. In the feeling I capture certain understanding. In the understanding I fathom it is not enough.
I imagine a strangeness to it all. If to hear your voice, you would explain it. To select a person. To undergo something terrific. Unabashed. Measuring and remeasuring. Unaware it would move to its own cadence. Unaware that it would awaken as an entity—that it would grow wings, that emotion would be the impetus to flights. To look left, to veer to the right; to sit and penetrate Life’s veneer; to become secernment. In all the dying, we study what it feels like to breathe. It will not go its way. We will live with it. We will keep to a course, never wavering, consumed by spirit, fluting as we compose.
III
The days are effusions of interior distractions. Or a sad and meditative dreaminess. I wonder what souls share, as it strikes a wavelength. To sit entirely with some soul in communion, not a world to it. As if world-less. How to measure consciousness, and yet, we see consciousness? In breaking the pairing, we measure the possibility. In leaving it untamed, we fear probability. It becomes of will through time. You looked human. I must acknowledge such an assertion. It never matters rather it is human beauty, or spirit beauty, or both. I will leave that to husbands to unfold. I was looking for humans, and you appeared. Many were about, but not as human as what I perceived in you. We clashed. I was not fully human. I was looking for human, searching out beauty, and judgmental of the human I saw. I was a fledgling. You wouldn’t pardon that. We clashed, and ignored being human. It generated an energy. In truth, we could do without each other. Something kept thinking, reading, measuring and composing. It seems simple: one writes, puts the pen down, and what has been written goes into a dormant location. Not so! We would never pursue it. It lives in the mind. Nevertheless, it does not turn off as one needs it to. This brings life. A sort of feeling. Somewhere between somber and halfway feeling normal. As something occupies the interior, alongside with other supportive realities. Indeed! Something creeps in. If not this, then why is it that. One has placed self in a situation; of course, it does not belong to our doing, it is the other person. Something seeming innocuous, becomes something feeling simultaneously enlarging, as well as in part, haunting. It might become a force, a part of one’s life, with so much to glean therefrom; while it must be monitored, where days have become weeks, and weeks have become months, and months continue to churn into years.
