From fiddling a doodad, to palming a fidget, laughing at irony, feeling undreamed, facing maelstrom; to grab a goblet, to remember yesteryears, pure rawness, loses, wilderness.
Days are filled by visions. Clouds are smoky. The skies are like spigots—pouring in awareness, unveiling identity, it feels unbelievable.
So concerned recently. Of clear minds, with essence intruding.
So cosmic, Love’s chaperon; so befuddled, so eternal, life is getting shorter.
To envision clarity; wondering of a curse; while it drives arts.
Those winged ribbons, remaining uncured, feeding self
assurance, becoming parts of absence, fretting emptiness, made sullen and full—those ghosts, Love, those palatial shrines, close to forfeiting a wish.
So much standing in ruins, to have something selfish, can’t be with error, if following the soul; nay, left parched, traveling a dry ocean, talking to wolves.
