Attend to it, meaning, the meta-fusion,
don't rest until you find that it is never expendable.

--

He had a name, not that he could remember it.
What did it matter? They probably wouldn't notice.
If forever is illusion, he's the actor of this screen play,
he's the omen himself, confusion is the bonus.
Opus-omen conundrum, alone on the freeway,
a master of hopeless appeasement, "Say,
I thought you'd know if we'd meet." It's
a strange withered relationship with passion melting.
Nurtured by the murmur's matrix, have a helping.
Serve it scorching hot, mortified by its forlorn eyes,
a quickened war-torn sky of crimson where our Pure Lord cries.
That ancient Beast, that lonely path toward Him.
A vast distortion! Golden bricks bound with thick heaps
of grass and mist, glass and brass and diamond studded
vines run up these walls of image and though wise enough,
he never had quite enough, to afford the whole price...
It was a silent dream, it was that ear popping mountain approach.
A quiet stream swimming toward the fear,
lodging, beneath the tears dropping from the fountains of Soul.

Do I tell the story? Do I expect enough from these images,
such that the symbol combusts in the visage of such resistance?

Absurdity, mental-metallurgy, alchemy of doubt it seems.
Futility, who really needs ten thousand leagues?
Or seas to
house the seeds of strength, evolving haste,
resulting lengths, we talk of greats, to be lost in Faith until
now it's seen.

She had a tale to tell, not that she could recall its essence.
What did it matter? Only He noticed and mentioned
that forever is allusion (but which?!) elusive to experience,
and confusion is the bonus, intrusive to the myriads
discussed at length. Disgusted pages torn from her Journal,
crumpled "fuck you's" born with internal nature astray.
Waiting for time to come and take her away.
Was it Him?
Or did she see herself for once in that rippling liquid?
Did he cast the stone that caused her such chagrin?
But she fastened-hope upon His sadness,
broken savage rage wielding battle-blades of feeling
and that was the day she really knew the truth until it had to fade...
into the black and gray: a dualistic matinée.
A truer vision of genius in her words on those pages,
and she was the perfect lead role, draw the curtains,
burn the stages.

And she's the actress in this screen play,
windows down, her passage on this freeway.

Do I tell the story? Do I expect enough from those witnesses?
Enough to trust what they saw despite their lust for such viciousness?

Their windshields felt the force of that hellish horse,
rain galloping challenging reality and physics.
Stereos pounding some rhythms of course,
a system of sound, ominous clouds surrounding,
a storm so valiant: and they both had stories to tell...
A median line dividing their reason and rhyme,
to end the Summer, a perfect season to drive.
Together the prophecy probably connected glory,
together before that sunrise they collected their messages,
gas in the tank to travel and thanks to that desire to know,
the collision was only as budding as a child, to grow
from nothing, to something, each mile is so,
agonizingly slow... passersby could have let the truth reveal,
instead together we invented fire and put to use the wheel.

It's lovely, the sound of shattering, clanking and ringing tones,
waiting together forever, to dance in rhythm and sing in prose.
Our language is the phantom clad in blackness with yellow eyes,
blinking in the distance, obscure thinking with persistence.
It is up to us now, as we come together in death or life,
stinging with an inkling that they've missed it!

Do I tell the story?
Or is it enough to keep the truth in fading camouflage?
We love this art; no better than to be together before this saintly sunrise.