Untold at Times
I have wonder in times with aches. I see dreams, I embody visions. I use her as a focal point. I have no business running off with these thoughts. Quite frankly, brains are detached, in sync, yearning for what they deny exists. It is not for complexity. I was insisted upon; a spliced soul. So compounded; one element deprives me, another renders me stonelike, another wine glass and liver
trouble, plus, a sphinx can’t resolve her complication. It means so much in an instance, to remember with fondness, again flat, listening to someone in the audience, an expert on what I am living. Not fair, right? To challenge one’s expertise. I vanished inside, dangling in limbo, trying to discover how others feel—those threads of intensity, seeming ignited at some juncture. I imagine
flipping, something simple. To float high in the air, just toppling in motion. I imagine kinfolk with a trustworthy heart, eager to lend an ear, more so eager to respond appropriately. I never say much about some things. I would not mind feeling succinct enough to tackle those topics. In getting to a space requiring wines, it seems unsteady. Many compositions come by a dry county. Certain
rubrics followed … we study patterns … and Love opened something, proving her legacy, to seem saddened by her miracle. Never a vision made relevant to a chasm; such gnostic beginnings, midway through, resurrection, to culminate in esoteria made human. One trapeze for poets, another for psychiatrists, each writhing in grunts, keeping life perceivable.
Our Letters
(If to fructify malaise, rethinking letters.) It beseems us to discover meaning, a life empty of such is made vulnerable. Many peek over at a precipice, never to leap; some are filled with hunger, nights here are days mourned. So beclouding—in its conception, interior bedeviled by impish thoughts, mindful of portals, such intangible hissing. At points, we must ask persons: “Why’d you want that for me?” And at segues we say: “I can’t fulfill such a demand.” So, needs appear
impossible to fulfill; maybe bad timing, or better, one isn’t equipped. It seems to get to a point where sadness is part of a person, his character, his wisdom. To study his personality—would reveal his nature. And souls are prudent to disguise it, if afforded such leniencies: we think of private domain. Nevertheless, mystery is unyielding, art of my passage, evenings of my prayers. It’s said—the prince of darkness sees us making our ways to light, it watches, it provokes a
stumbling block, each measure, if all consuming, where do I stand? if permitted, where do I plead my case? (It’s a feeling in chi, at integers, most holy. (One can disrupt waves.) Such cadent embers, mourning terrific experience, knowing there’s misery unaddressed.) For many, happiness requires each other, as persons in battle, unaware of human instincts: survival of the fittest. We cloy morals, to weary them, asking for an exact feeling to never perish, inclined to soar, inclined to cherish
inheritance. If to be in harmony, to cavort with loyalty, to neatly wear shades, warding off temptation, if it’s resistible. So constrained by desires, such roaring cupidity, greed for existence, maybe hampered by a few insecurities. In essence, we chide imperfection of matters—concerning hearts, we pride the lone ranger—fighting a stalwart battle, all in honor of an ideal picture. Forsooth! To efface yearnings, to make passion in the well-beloved, to discuss insecurities, as
speaking to idyllic maturity, things observed far into motion. It’s said in passing, a law isn’t created until a crime has been done. Similar to us, a moral isn’t such until an infraction has been experienced. Covering all angles is impossible. We might put faith in others, as not to do anything they wouldn’t will us to do. In truth, there’s a spurt in which excellence is reached. Souls measure their terms. Parts of heaven are attainable. If to rethink our letters.
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