I trespass beyond,

I trespass beyond,
transgressing loving limits
of art and your eyes.
under the sun,
my thoughts race, turning
passed every eventful horizon,
reaching, every bright face.
under the tree we kiss
under, under these swaying canopies,
breezes whisper themselves
to me, my space,
and my breath
glistens.

Art, in sense, considers the underpinnings—the lines drawing the crest and the trough, so as if to read the oceans’ spirit, and it crashes and falls, endlessly; then, the rhythm is the same, of the heart and the brain, but the trick is to account for every body, for science, for generalizable knowledge, to borrow the phrase; it is why we “cut” the lines—arbitrarily even—that you recognize order has been determined: enter the feminine, to find the fault in the former, rationalizing; the demand for/of what is wanting fueling determination, justly or otherwise. The final point is far off from most; she does not need the sentences to see the greater structure when she knows the names (nouns) and their source by heart; the highest sort of scanning, one would imagine, but then there are the purists and the acrobats, speed and strength, depth and breadth, color and code; a greater patterns’ governance leans either to harmonize or confound, they cannot be “tolerated”, they are accepted or rejected and rejecting. Then, and only then beauty is honesty, otherwise we lose in love though we may win something of truth. We recognize this by the moment, we have believed in all that we’ve seen, that it is more than we know, but, we live and embody each moment, bear all we can of what it offers—or, aim accordingly and expect well what we receive. To fear the storm is to fear the unknown; to fear the breezes’ coming and going, is to hope and love—dare anyone to give up a smile’s joy or sly laughter; we give in where we choose or lose, but by whose authority? Victimized are those who believe they’ll stand alone. Or, those that there be no grades and no honorable account— as though mountains wouldn’t eat those who’d doubt their mass were they sensible, and the skies and the earths swallow you whole. Grammaticality—though it is our final frontier—was born of grammaticalists, and they are honest but flawed, and will fail without guide, and we would do well not to suppose the converse, for every science is filled with names of men, when poets are the genderless specimens of humanity, with the philologists, their dignified men at arms—that the pen be mightier would then it not rule? That there are those begriming the name of the self-sustaining and eternal, that their mortal fame would perish, and their followers would disperse—what when lovers’ art follows suit, painting the grime of the world a petty crime, worth a smile but revealing all its pitiless solitude; see, dirt kicked in the face of the warrior hasn’t the time to stick to his speed—soldiers be weary then of idled time. Always a seeker, needs no lines cut for him, no unrefined paths paved, devoid of face, love; always in love, always will he, and so, soar, find heart. (Though, it helps to punctuate.)

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