1
Into a blacksmith's old soul,
there is this familiar space
that strikes no pose
and does not gather any excess.
For there is more deeply imbedded
a forever rootedness.
It is more than life,
by sensory observation,
comes to demonstrate.
Here, before the feet of perception
have solidified images
or the tongues of self-awareness
have persuasion,
lies a sourcefulness of being.
This is where all contradictions
bang their maggot heads
upon this door.
This self of door,
hinged of tissues and sinewy,
that has words slap at it
and meanings left there to smart.
What that attempts to say
is what cannot be spoken.
What that attempts to mean
is what cannot be understood.
What is that, that is not to be?
Was there ever
another point in time
ready to answer?
Was there an embellishment of world
that was not empty
for spirit, your spirit, to fill?
Is it an insane fixation
of worthlessness as your continuance,
a we-they of clamor towards yearning
that is yet to surmise,
a dingy of softly spoken whispers
coming from all four corners
of the universe at you at once,
a deep envelope of self
filled with promiscuous liquids
and breeze of constant breathing,
as an elegant intercession of breathes
in a nerve fusion dance?
Well, was there ever a something
coming towards you
and yet now,
you boldly stand and profess,
a “nothing matters”?
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