Quite Right

Let the blackening soul run through, you stupendous fool.

For once, the joy of gaining seeps like blood into skin, the starkness of knowing like the proud shutting of eyes, away from the formless echoing.

The movement of flags shutter this vastness, and grovels forth a notion that implicates, posits, implies, running like glaciers through mens' minds, bearing them away with the impetuosity of time in its barren magnetism, as if we were pins, as if they could draw truths where they carried only sadness.

I thought of yesterday, remembered the value of forgetting that drew us to our identity, force fed into validity, reduced into the tidal monotony of routine. Are our soul-seas an image of the churning, formless clouds?

Do I remember anything else? Has anyone been so desirous of freedom that he suffers from it? How could I bear to?

The sun is beaming into the recess of hidden corners again; its pointed fingers tap on the shell of consciousness, promising a relief, tremendous relief, and autonomous silence that sings, with that insolence of innocence.