more esoteric bullshit.

Two whispers: 

it starts slow and cold

chills that begin with the neck

and work down the arms,

to the knees

and to the feet.

Quickly, but on looking back

each raised hair is a memory,

one by one Pronouncing, 

"I am here" and "you

remember me",

"you can be who you wanted to be,

you can be what you thought."

Acid is what makes the days go so leniently by

lacking purpose

lacking will

But spirit like two whispers

reminds the deep corners that it is possible

to find yourself

inside yourself.

It is possible

to live without fear,

to go out into the world with

hands at sides

instead of covering eyes.

“I cannot paint what then I was”

but I can,

and such remembrance causes synapse to fire:

Emotion in direction,

Emotion in motion.

I cannot paint what now I am:

misdirected,

but not lost,

off track and kilter,

unbalanced.

My name is spelled correctly:

  I am not.

Coffee cakes crumbles,

sour milk...

yesterday thoughts.

Then sighs and ah,

airflow humming those

sweet whispers in my ears,

delicate and strange,

begging to be heard,

to listen to,

to be listened to.

There is music where there

was none.

There is beauty where there

was None.

So we

sit

in the middle,

like a child waiting anxiously to grow up,

not knowing how, really, or even understanding,

but somehow sensing the ebb and flow

of good air in and out

of lungs, good blood running hot and feverish,

the precognition of who will

emerge when transformation

is finally complete,

but never whole;

only half can ever come to reason.

Life is on and on and on.

So then, shall I be with you?

And you with me?

Spirit sweet like whispers creeping slow

in my ear,

Processing

Processions.

Spirit calling softly, then so loud and thunderous like a thousand voices all clammering to be righted and returned to the place where even wild man dreams make pure sense.

Somewhere inside the spark insists upon growing,

brighter,

Louder,

"I can be who I am supposed to be."