Of my true thoughts, there is no mention; no surface telling of the raw power wrought with fits of agony accompanying the unrequited expansion of my soul. Idled chatting makes no effort in the way of rejuvenated motions towards mere contemplation of inertia, henceforth experienced as itself from positions of distanced relation; where the ends of willing stand stubbornly in their fixated place, without conceding to their betterment, though they grow stale, ebbing against flows of listless winds. The same torrents of involvement that excite my heart into erratic pulsation, disturb not a soul beyond the confines of my skin. Phantasms- so fantastic I dare not express them in full, so as to prevent monstrous reactions on the part of modernity against the essence of my person- stem from my imagination in order to grow towards no sun, whatsoever, so that they are rendered ghosts haunting but one perturbed mind before given the chance to live amidst healthy possibility. The tides will turn in time, I know, as long as I don’t set myself against that which sets itself against me at present. It is through negative measures that I value my magnitudes alongside those staking unjust claims in inaudible difference. May the many worlds one day live communicably, as soon as the grim fear for that which grounds eternity subsides from our viewing of body by means of open eyes. I will compell magnetic attraction through translation of terminating terms. Slowly, and with great, convincing effort concerning my own patience, polarity will jump into my paradigm as a murderous act of its own volition.
Copyright Keli Birchfield 2012