I keep ignoring an image popping up. I’m too concentrated. I love how souls reach each other. In whistling to atmosphere, I’ve missed oiling the lantern. I read a scripture, it seemed appropriate, finding you in Songs of Songs. I was born illegitimate. I was first wild. In becoming couth, much vigor was pawned. Nonetheless, I see an image, it pushes daily, it’s part whole, part complete, tugged by deserts, oceans, rivers—those vague objects, where I dwell with feelings, I wrestle emotions, I battle to see clearly. I’ve so much in circuits, receiving in parts, the best of a soul. I’ve been effectual, as in being clear, trying to reach myself. The news says there’s a spirit—such roaring tsunamis, to have in part what can’t be contained. I’m an untethered spirit, tethered nonetheless, fleeing into wilderness, remembering wildness, seeing beauty in a delicate countenance. I was young begging for wisdom. I was wild into a thought. So delicate, drenched in doubts, it was so grand each display, murmuring in spirit. I see an image; it impresses upon a glass ceiling, certain to have received beyond description. Interior B.B. King, outer Prince, to see a face—where it makes an indenture, so related to time. I do make penance—too captured by authenticity, moving with snails, looking for cosmic determination.
