Graven Palms
I thought until an image appeared. I have a polemic, Love. It must matter. By confliction of memories. Trying to talk love; trying to disguise a graven shadow. Such is travail. Sensing graven palms means something acutely. A rope is fraught by cords; a river is filled with carcasses. Blood trickles into seas. I was puzzled, it was made clear—those scales mean existence; by furnace, by affliction, a man of sorrows. A Great Arm—reaching to cuddle souls, akin to a wing nestling its chicks. One direction: wondering—if it were easy, to explain why so many chase it. A portion given to souls. Most would not believe it, maybe cups overflow. Maybe this forms a need. And I see in folds, each page earmarked, wondering, if it truly matters. What will a tomb read? And sudden thunder, falling from skies, to speak riddles. By instruction—becoming energy, executed through creativity. Maybe cosmic tone, hue and reality, maybe souls find favor; indeed, maybe faith, belief, runs deeper unto bringing them to life, in some folks. I must ask: Are souls policing God? A sailing enterprise—filled with rationalization. A spirit would build an empire, train spirits, trying to contain it. One will unleash iridescence—mud black demons, pearl white angels—refined by kilns.
Staircase Flickering
Those critical skills, I imagine they churn inside. In seeing activity, in filtering fiber, tasting vomit, made precious in her kingdom—thrust through by deities; qualifying wars, subtle attacks, pure machination. Too much power drives a soul insane: ghost particles, confession made deliberate, it takes on a new texture. I voiced concern—private hours, such a soaring response, and it feels purposefully flat. What if spirits die? We’d refute so much of history. I suppose it has meaning, for living souls, speculative meta-science. I’d suspect it does something for itself … something collective, if to voice a voiceless nation. An unheard story, in a talkative city, almost impossible, such invisibility. Each feeling upon its arc those heart petals, as caged spirits breaking into freedoms … chains and feathers. Not much is satiation infinitum. A certain reality in souls … asked about self, I didn’t have an answer. Never quite succinct, a slight tremor. Reality keeps chasing, relentless at times, searching for meaning, content on its point: Disappointment is immanent. A tale we overlooked, passionate youths, adults—looking at potential change. In utterance to discover silence; in silence to discover reflection; in reflection to absorb knowledge; and knowledge, ironically, becomes heaviness.
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