I get lost in the rain. The point of it all. To look over at a friend, to hide so much, to reveal so little. The Ghost at it. The Spirit moving. A little somber, a little uncomfortable. Something is with me, maybe an ancestor, maybe Father. It becomes a feeling, a chill, a presence. We discount it, but souls are right here. In truth, it gets crowded, while it gets lonely. Something is watching, some angelic force, some demonic resistance. The hand that composes! I get tired in the storm. At best, we call it uncanny; at the other end, we call it a message. Ancestors entered and paved a way. Looking at links, seeing a chain, touched by something majestic. Let the heart be witness. Let it speak to its spirit, its soul. Too many flaws. Too great the excellence. In finding meaning, we make elastic the facts. I can get lost in the sorrows. I forget about the goodness. It’s taken its affect. In therapy they ask a simple question: “Are you able to enjoy things?” I leave that to the nature of the soul. Value is appointed; it varies from person to person. I felt a strain in the composition. Some decimation has taken place; history is riddled with confusion. The line is like vapor. Some souls are in need of truths. In finding information, life can get heavy. In trying to let go, it just grips the observer. With trying to get back to innocence, it’s impossible.
