It never explains itself. It exhausts itself. It drains the earth. Beguiling, ceramic hearts. Nothing to its tyranny. A soul is with science. And many will test …. (It arrives.) It refuses to be forgotten. Not just because. It considers forgiveness to its weakness. In all the knowing, know surrounding lakes. Despite what we believe, the rivers are not inconsequential. And we never see ourselves. We wander mire, eat sackcloth, a guffaw in the horizon. Life is part beauty. Her aesthetics are rich. Such a systemic fuse. Pain beyond color. Who can make the crooked things straight? And we try to appease the existential, bled of humanity, to hear it in the winds—a muffled guffaw. Surefire motion; a man wonders about it. This is it, until a catastrophe, if not, this is the measure of life. One sees the effort, bent on something tragic, refusing to let life take its measure. There is a concern, where humans refuse it, God is willing to forgive. So, the beginning contains its ending, and vice versa. The madness of schematics. The markings are there. One will volunteer others; and nothing encapsulates it all. I wish that small group knew. In seeing what they call reality. Nevertheless, it is by measure its own excellence. By design, it builds, one must meet it at each increment, let nothing pass by.
