I came naked to baptism. A public testimony. It holds something sacred—sent out into the world. Coils & serpents. Fireflies & deception.
Any other day, it would seem personal, dealing with Socrates. The repetition of it all. It seems opposite of what it feels like. Frankly, it seems impossible upon a dream. Such salacious arts. I suppose a husband is with monopoly, rather, another feels monopolized. That seems to be its
point, total interruption, placing a spotlight on itself. So many prose to debate. It was: I haven’t a clue. It seems to persist into a meaning. Leaving that alone, the phoenix is soaring, aside a fire hawk, falling from skies into an orbit—the firebird. It may feel like darkness, overwhelmingness,
to picture a calling. It seems to vitiate its point, for it dies to weaken breath, never revealing essence, with soul in need of a parachute; else, life is terrific. So much alike to aesthetics, such symmetry, cadence carries a dialogue. I thought I would search forever, moderately alone,
writing my findings. Never thought one built for chaos would appear. Spirit is tricky, it will get its point across, manipulating weather, inducing tsunamis. How many others? I was in shadow, sinking, learning to swim—such fire ice, teal syrup, dripping into a familiar well. To wonder
about Love, to sense too much, as shutting down—upon a fisher’s pole. How did one wiggle free? Is the world an oyster? So terrible the compassion, something wakes up, mimicking arts.
