By Hart Heiden
And I know. That this moment might seem insignificant enough to want to predict, but do not think that way. While it may be true that there is no expected bounce back of prosperity; no recognition for what’s all there. No fortress. No castle. Nothing but a zone of empty sea in-wait. Really—and I mean? Really-all-there. It simply needs to go. Go on and get off on the move. The constituents. The guests to the party. The blessings of all over of that whatever was? Do not concern over this. All that proceeded to run its’ hook around and through and inside and out, over and over and over again is flat. Back-noodles, the empire. Should have nothing to do with it, but an interesting way to perk up as something curious to rejoice in for a moment as another brief gust of wind positively and absolutely wholly-driven impacts the sails. There has to be the driver within who continues regardless of appearances.
In order to resonate with oneself and directly bargain with emphasis; or, to truly begin to understand why a person’s nature is experienced as such, or, in such a way as it is described by them. The deaf-ears of the defending almost consist of empty refuge. There is nothing there, but hopeful expectation where postures delay significant truths. There never will be anything there; nothing but blanketed-exaggeration and verbal disappointment. The cost coincides with brutish demand and seeps into thick as enemies adorn themselves along the dotted horizon. Majestic futures ride settled along separate perversions of pride and hopeful recognition, as they begin to lean closer-inward toward the booming echoes of profound stress-filled gratuity. The commotion carries forward. Onward. Upward. For whom does anyone trust along in this journey, but in oneself? The fleeting flags are so clearly flippantly defiant in negotiating their passing. The consuming, driven wind works predictability across the interferences of relationships that seem so unwaveringly governed. The bloody boils of prisoner-like conquests become staggered yet again, by the incoming saviors who claim to offer solid remedy.
Each savior holds his or her own perspective shifting only as the circumstance rearranges and a new floodgate of opportunity unveils; each visiting conquest containing some ontological manipulation of its own accord like the nagging spot of itchiness in the small of the back that can never be reached confidently. The glorious swings of attempt, struggling to occupy friendly space, provide little relief. The victim’s are talented here. They certainly must be at this heightened level of engagement.
The currents are cheaply staggered—wavering solemnly and without true conviction or intent—barricading the desired result. Maybe it’s good here. Maybe this is the space. Maybe there’s potable water at this mark. Maybe there’s some sense of ordered grace. Maybe there isn’t? Walk me now. Hold me lifeblood. Breathe me into my circuitry and fulfill on my innumerable request. There is only one here. One, true, new, moon. Patiently awaiting legal supervision of the disappearing company. If words were determining factors of demonstration? in the embodiment of fully and completely describing one’s own essence, would they still undermine their truth? There are no final answers here. Jeopardy has won its ground. There is no objective forcefield to indulge upon, no cheap-trodden award to receive, and no safe moment of internal harassment. The conclusions are best; they’re all there, so neatly uncovered and decided, but the precise measurements have yet to be determined. The goddess of gratitude only illuminates the well-initiated, and will storm the compounds of the self, and for the rest. Barriers and barricades? Confusions and consternations? All the same, no worries. Amassed in unwavering fortitude and genuine fulfillment to be trampled upon by, I attempt to fully occupy this space in pure awe and contentment.
-Poewem