First hexagram in a third moment of throwing. It's a cracked falling, thunder storms on Hylian plains. The moon is Uranus and is a sardonic smile, paining to further pleasure. I remember the mirror that sunk its teeth into my face and horrorred this lunatic.
My neck is taught, tight rope wrapped round a mountain top; skies scream symphonies amidst.I begin to see infinity in every face I create before me, not mine. A dazed hawk dodging Olympian orations; I can not see my self. I am in the storms of my mind. And I rarely meet another legendary bird here in this freezing warm.
I rarely can see past the golden dendrites I surf around. I rarely see my own feathers in this weather. My neck hurts, chained by my own capitulations, red emblazoned by docility.
I hurt so badly because I realize where I am, a striked mass of winged fury in a lightning kingdom, falling, falling, being.
I am beginning to emotionally accept my perfection, my beauty, my value. Beginning.
But it takes shocks atop shocks to the dome, high frequency paint splatters that incise tattoos of forever, and forever ago.
And stinging lizations that I am Here, but not a Hare. And my aria is sung for an area of heightened ideals, abstracted appeals; in skies screaming symphonies down ahead.
Stillness.
In a thunderstorm.
I can speak in poetic tongues and seduce you in clandestine silences. But at the end of it all, the moon still has a dark side.
And I am there. Hidden betwixt the blackness. Alone. But not forever, and not forever ago.
LOVE
M .A. R
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