The myth becomes a legend, and no one desires the mirror. Many are crocheting with yarn, listening to chirpings. They have dreams. They have wit.
Such mature rain. So many treading a pattern, an undiscovered one. I feel that way. So cordial about it, so confused by it.
Neat, cozy confusion. Silent, mysterious mirrors.
With opera in theatre. With mind wilderness, if a second at breathing. And what to say when one confides in us.
Some parts are hidden from us—out of protecting us, and deep embarrassment. Those parts are clamoring, jingling, churning ghosts.
Lizards brave the deserts. Humans’ brave existence. If a wand was all life requires.
Argent steaks in skies; arcane beliefs; folktales, lure, if to sustain concentration. Claret roses, russet petals, if to adore through eternity.
Those with definition—to have soared through life, if half empty, someone is half full. Moon lightning souls. Moil and pain, aligned with joy and happiness souls.
