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Standing At The Bannister

For a long time, the doubting was crucial, it leaves in waves. at times, quite the literalist, the realist, with a hunch. The gravel is a spigot. The soil upchucks ghosts and goblins.

By gut, by fancy, wailing inside, walking carefully. By revelation, to have discovered, what was original—it sat in binoculars, in a box, a full appearance, exquisite opera glasses.

I will confess—this has been trying—a most pervasive, intrusive eloquence: mental jabbing, bats walking, the dragon flustered, the snake hissing—to become the Awe we chase.

I was grieving a loss. I stopped. The loss isn’t for me to grieve. (People are peculiar. We notice mistakes … even false ones. We grieve or honor excellence … after certification.)

It’s now inside of me. I don’t wrestle it anymore. It’s trauma—new particles—ignited old residences. We might not value honesty … more pleasantries. I won’t ask again – not in like

fashion. (The grains are with weeds. The next season, we’ll be more careful. (We might overrate the debris, and underrate the wheat.) In due time, this will pass.)

A soul will work against self—once a seed is sewn. Better, a soul will attack self over an indiscretion. As rethinking its position, filled with criticism, permitted without egress.

Most ancient fever—distraught with presence, warding off depression with anger—forming a gatekeeper, made critical, fraught by indifference and remorse, more then, than now.

Society would have one in guilt forever, despite, the fitting or unfitting punishment. As if souls are made of stubborn parts, sure intractability, a mind naturally incorrigible.

Yes! Some behavior is clinical, pathological, but trespass is different. Oh for illusion and hurting—if kindred souls, where one is accountable here, but suffering a deficit there.

I have tasted sweet wine, by chalice and spirit, made low for unbeknownst reasons; nay, the tender reality of hoping in, and for, excellence, to believe in something innately perfect.

We never mention the 90-year-old able-minded woman in the slums, most holy for her entire life. She never needs more than her allotment. She never makes a social faux pas.

It becomes the city slickers, the reverent and irreverent, those made of impervious material. It becomes a painstaking excitement. It becomes entertaining one another to stand one another.

So unfiltered the undercurrent. So systematic the response. I must go back to an unstable space—to garner a stable stasis. (Those years meant much; the lady has passed; we revere her flame.)
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Submitted by on February 27, 2022

2:09 min read

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