One story for a man’s life. The aftermath shall attest to his worth.
Stain glass reflectors; the world living in spaces, entirely consumed.
Adaptation: with or without participation.
Relooking at mirrors, same sights. (We would placate each other. People live that way.)
Porcelain sinks: visible darkness. In those shadows sits a ventriloquist: so much an appetite for stressors.
Trying. I’d suppose. Maybe not hard enough. It all looks similar. I do know: “We’re all trying.”
I see sharks and remoras. I see lions and cheetahs.
They haven’t been faced by it; they haven’t experienced it: “Maybe they have. Maybe it was overwhelming.”
Most of us took a longer road, followed an inner map, died and returned a little lethal. Interior crucifixion, reaching for an Ideal, needing to believe in something beautiful.
To listen to it is surprising. It always shocks me. I couldn’t do a person that way. This is what’s gorgeous about humans, a compass, looking to do right. To look at a person. To know one would die before hurting the Ideal. It remains an Ideal.
One story for a man’s life. What did he accomplish? How many kids? How many wives? How much money?
What did he attribute to the zeitgeist? How many loved him?
