Process Until Whole
Beyond these dwellings of existence, and its heavenly predictions. Past chasms & phantasms, and the harbingering of evolutionary sanity.
Unbeknownst I sought, in that I should seek.
Verily the brink of parallel peaks of admonitions & admissions oblique.
What if they meet in me, Forsooth, I bypassed the etch in H un-annunciated.
Should I emancipate the pause then, a sigh would ask if not allowed to liberate in the sky.
The words need to be appetising enough to fulfil soul-food for thought.
Is that what is begot, before the ten of time trots to move narrative focus further into my story. (I would have said ‘his’ story lest third person think of it as past tense).
By all means, not past tense yet.
Taut like a German accent free fräulein on a tight rope; meaning a lot.
Verily then. D-I-S-C-O verily dancing through the point as if it were mist.
Is there is a version in which this makes sense, like the words sweetening the palette into sharper common sense.
Uncommon sense albeit.
All the words in address, as if all at once taken off.
In a tangent, they greet.
Tilting the head sideways as if to see a diamond out of a sooty piece of coal.
Or a star, out of the pattern of a night sky.
My, my, the sigh is loosening in attune.
Melody then, some hot cocoa codependency in chance.
Perchance of parlance of course, some steaming hot beverage in quatrain.
A plane of thought in plain sight.
The doppler effect in resonance like it were a satellite in orbit.
All the sounds are going that way.
But that’s not how a key turns.
Ask a dervish, won’t you, what makes a key turn?
Or rather, say when.
Alphecca - The Dervish's dish. The Gem in the crown. Constellation Corona Borealis.
A coat of quotes and passing poetry
"
Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching.
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw,
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee.
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, — No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Not by works that gain thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the Lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest, Thou art wealthier,—all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone.
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
Nature wears the color of the spirit;
Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.
"Why thus longing | Harriet Winslow Sewall