Stakes

What is at stake is the inching towards perfection. What is at stake is the creation of a magnificent representation, of feeling, far superior than it's original. Worthy of enamouring the weaver.

Ah no, what was never at stake was its worthiness amidst the beholder. It never was. It was not about meaning, or moving, or affirmation.

What was always at stake was the creator, not the beholder.

***

What is at stake, is the seizing of each moment of seizable discrete time, living it to the vibrant fullest. What is at stake is the feeling of life, at each of those units time. The beating of the heart; the fluttering of eyelids; the dilations of irises.

Whether that be through unravelling the mysteries when plagued by curiosity. Or be endeared in nature's embrace, or in loving, and being loved; or in creating a Galatea, and falling in love, and living a life of adoration and admiration and servility; or staking one's stake in with the commonwealth's, for love, or to set oneself right.

What is never at stake, is going through the constructions of society, and fighting to see meaning and beauty in the motions. Nay, unless it is in those motions that one finds completion.

***

What is at stake is always ahead, is always from within, until there is nothing more to stake. That is the moment of completion. The moment of finitude. The moment we grace the end with satisfaction at having staked, and won, and at having left nothing behind. May we all be blessed with finitude.


[big acknowledgement to Kana, for reading, liking, owning, and changing this. but i'll keep the structure, K; it is more dense that what I would like for poetry]

Descending into poetry

A lick of feeling whipped off the eddies of my soul. I throw it at the wall, and the pandora bursts, led artfully to create vivid graffiti. My little feeling is an opera centre-stage; majestic, lone, classic. I behold that art of my feeling. And as such perceived, twice removed from the chaos of its origin, moves me, brings me to peace.

(I, perchance, have no right to be feeling x amidst the multitude n of alphabets, so much more grave than x. And yet, here I am with x; my soul craves satisfaction; cringes from lack of attention; yearns for resolution. Locked up with her, I glance into her beautiful deep brown eyes, swirling in and in into her irises. A glance of flame, a pat of inspiration, and here I descend into poetry. Ah poetry, I could dance away the Milky Way with you. Whither have you been.)


[thanks Kana for the comments. i've edited a bit. will rework-repost later.]