Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
So I stopped and sat still as I saw the prime commence, And wondered on the possession of so serious a fact. the act presupposes an end. See, the mighty legs of the many runners fatigue upon the chase. The object lesson for all concerned? they run awfully hard in place.
The whole universe in this tight space. If not the whole, at least we ourselves. Complexity exposed and manipulated for benefit or benefitting needs. The need to express the whole of lives. The lives we lead in this tight space.
Under the weight of the prolonged rests the peaceful disintegration of a name. What is your hope? It is feeling, oozing past reality to where experience suffers spasmodic fits. It is the long and sullen attaining critical mass. (The belief that) with a push from the other side, the anguish disperses and comes relief. Maybe this is where you find it. In the remembering. In the soothing. To mean, to suffer -- sister soldiers of internal discourse. To verily believe the unbelievable.
And so shall the settled remain affected. Caught unaware in the blister of the street. Summer time, winter time, that holly holy, slim lined fleet... Oh, the settled shall decompose amid the bones of those with nothing but the rancor.
Trace BBs as they kiss the luminescent peak of waves; parabolic explorations observed by a bright eyed boy cognizant of the limits of their destructive power. See them arch through the midday malaise-- Tuesdays wasted in repetition, that's the state of this young boy's heart. Here is now and is forever, never mind the decades that slip past and the many meetings with one mind.