Assuredly, it’s a desperate process. Such neat rain, trying to control illusion. I’ve entered an arena, faced by lions, the audience is ecstatic. (Such chaotic intuition.) So close—it whispers; sullen meadows. Rites made alarming. Interior walls; sky captivity. (There’s nothing left to be said: most activities seem wrong.) The argument sounds morose. In listening to it, it sounds damning. (The way souls are couth: such became ideal.) So edged about it, like good cactus, leaking water. Those ferric departures, holding bronze faith—decent enough to see patterns. (Loving has been an adventure; amazed by what souls demand; disputing darkness, waves, glass slippers.) I was wondering where connections go. I was sailing through thoughts, cogitating about love, glamourizing her excellence. For many, it was time until a dear chase took precedence. Raindrops upon mind-chatter, listening to Al Green; days looking into nights, benighted at points, tired of it. I see now. It becomes tussling forever, in claiming love. It wills to make souls sour. It sees itself differently. It has lost touch, as they say. (What was it for me to suggest it, it was a mirror at breath.) To sense holding one’s on head; carrying one’s on cross; learning to love one’s on self. (Or) something quite gray: a troubled man, living his nightmares, nothing without his darkness, caught in some convenient web, as truth would have it, one has nothing else to do. Told to lay burdens to Christ, (I will keep him at peace that keeps his mind on me)—nearly impossible, nearly incomplete. I can’t find it in me. I’ve lost gusto. Indeed, tomorrow has her own ghosts.
