we all suffer from existential decompression,
driven by the sufferings from outcome account.
whereby memory is a form of activated plagiarism.
and to know of any of us, as significant others,
is a form of spiritual betrayal.
where being a self, is a form of oneness prostitution.
we are all part of a multi-billion-aped as a human,
traveling one conscious leg-in-movement awareness,
yet captured in the web of time
as just creatures wandering
in the forest of creation
during the season of manifest,
where living is a sinkhole
into the dimension of matter.
I toil in the droll of these words until it is a soup,
where my ears dare to see my face in reflection.
my mind aware is a spoon over-gripped.
what mouth open is not infinity looking back,
where taste buds are inhibited monks,
trapped in the babbling mountain of taste,
praying to appease the gods of flavor
instead of fulfilling the prophesy
of current bodily needs
for this moment’s physical measure.
to know that we are all fluids of light,
dressed in the apparel of stillborn labels,
where legibility is our credence for ignorance
and understanding is our self-dissection
into parts of an unknowable whole.
for you know yourself to be
through your keen observation of yourself,
somewhat like me . . .