Metaphoric lines

By Julian Sudre

THE only accolade, I could refer to, as the solace of intangible truth to betterment – if not, the sine qua non -- when wine pours out of the crack of heaven -- Clashy, ritualistic, and spiritual: a cataclysm of mental thrusts that erupt like frustrated geysers seem to be about to reconfigure the surface of my perception.

I ask, if not confoundedly, the help of the Beyond to ramp the anxiety down. Lost amidst the foliage of uncontrollable torpor, and agitation, I pray for the serene future.
Stupefied and discombobulated by such irregular fits, I marvel with incandescence at the angst and indelible panic that I have generated.

But thoughts project a material reinforcement in an abstract world. Perhaps this is where the mistake is; by applying such a distracting veneer to our own projections, we create or exacerbate the sharpness of incongruous metaphors.

May the Hand Of God wipe it away and bless us with the spontaneity of an angel.