weave

the spirits dwelling within made small talk like the skin tightening, relaxing as another mirror reflects back having similar interplay of relaxation then stress, when words fall on damp soil unable to grow. my life is better than yours does not sound quite kosher, morphs to it is the simple things in life that brings us joy. the mirror face relaxes, the spirits within make big talks on who was best and vanity no longer wonders who is the most beautiful when it is quite evident that the desert is able to spring out cactus green with water alive, turgid stems wanting to burst to rain down a cool draft the mind plots, wanders, congratulates itself when heart is made at peace with narratives told by the court jester and a god sits on the throne looking a lot like i am. spirits wander past veils, into fogs unable to find their way back the mind scratches for truth no longer apparent, still the face remains pleasant, even though it is evidently puzzled when mind, heart and soul no longer seem congruent. another story to be told said the imp to the ear while the mind gets lost into the fog, spirits find their way back then it becomes soon quite clear why the outside is never quite what it appears to be.