In discussion of a dream, certain cosmos, we spoke of nothingness; between spheres, desperate to fathom life, haunted by miscalculation. I was wanting, lacking desire, envying classic poems. The richness of simplicity: grain-clouds, angel-crops, by far, the most significant weather. It was time, I bore witness to it. Remnants seized me; needing an experience, paired with an excuse. Sky tenor. Earth granite. Always between dimensions. Subtle mist, illuminous whisking, to know in tender essence—an irrefutable color. I was a glimpse in a thought, germinating. I was an intense moment, followed by intricate sunshine. If one would, time has dug into reality. Nothing quite soothes the hunger. Numbness becomes a sort of easing. We all have an understanding, something remaining mysterious. Like wonder in presence of innocence. Like mystic warmth between friends. I was trying to figure it out, why it stuck. Deep scarring, misty vibrations, intense energy, and mental antiquity. It becomes sound, immortalization, in two destined to metamorphosize.
