In feeling you—the memory is embedded. In waring against a feeling, resistance became a shrine. To have ached in sunrise, to have fallen while galloping, a coarse course, a casual sacrifice. With denying elements, to fret over grayness, to deal with being human, in all perfections, in all hells; a dance as it makes its impression, indelible ink, spectrum spirit. In not broaching the topic, in not acknowledging the aftermath, as it was for that purpose, to announce a sort of living and dying; crumbled and discarded, trampled and forgotten, or affected and watched, read and felt, balanced and chaotic. We call it, balanced chaos. (Never as it would soar into orbits; to deign to by its majesty, to provoke elements, such terrific, terrifying fey: inside flickers, lanterns on high, fitted for a nun, wafting in spirit, certain unspoken crafts.) While it manifested—one ignored exhaustion, one withstood whispering, one was fierce to the fields. Such holiness; in its reigns. As galloping all night—remaining night-less. Such was never without meaning, pushed by affections, thrown into lakes. A man to his folly. A woman to her awareness. And never a second to not foreshadow; and never a second left unguessed; to buckle down, to dig deeper, to loathe the one she haunted. Filled by logic, concerned by emotion, an effusion into the universe—tugged by wars, framed in high esteem, to exact vengeance upon one found wanting. In daring not to speak of webbing, such crucible, to invest in hatred and see goodness. To become paradox, to desire Father, to pour out an oblation—to paint with spirits, to have died in soul, a life one must keep sacred.
