Behind The Phantom

upon a grandfather clock, watching time, slipping into darkness; the woes of the furnace, the ghosts watching, that feeling that doesn’t move. mastery of the condition, pure existential plight, the round-and-round about it. to become the warmth of the solace—some privilege in essence, participating in the conundrum. the daily Exercises must work. the Flowing Light must examine the soul; as appointed in spirit—to tend to spirit. some strange island, a face in a mountain, the communion is the commission. so many fieldtrips, so many passing as we go, so many needing affection. it seems the chef of the socialites is weaving; the maestro is consoling anxiety; and the symphony is soaring into excellence. as trains come to pass, and life is an umbrella of affairs, while dishonesty seems to exist; some pivotal exhibit, some required furniture, some type of studying of itself.     soft, palatial lenses; phantom palms; every word mustn’t be authenticated, but it seldom isn’t. the brokers of society, become emotional accountants, drained of the beauty built on lies—such gorgeous, radiant lies, such necessary to love in times, sweet nectar made ingenious through lies; as faulting a soul for the love bestowed upon spirits with lies; the lifegiving lie, the sole transgression, as never so ecstatic as when the lie was delivered. the noetic capacity, of a treatise on lies, such different mysticism, such iridescent religiosity.