to the source-point of consciousness,
before edification and the stream of self aware.
experience is the imprisonment itself.
cognition is a coating of separation applied,
a serum of identification into the divide,
a pledge of divertedness from the quantum,
to be here, where sanity is the warden.
every notice is the eyes and hears of a snitch
I am a lifer, as we all are,
serving an elongated term of solitary confinement.
in essence, everything I touch is contraband.
even breath is a control substance abuse.
all behavior is at least a subtle form
of domestic wrong usage.
I would love to escape my history,
my storied account in refrain.
away from oneness, at any point,
is homelessness abound.
as a self, I am a worthless indigent.
I seek the solace
of unconditional love as intervention
yet kept in the irons of mindfulness
as an exercise yard restraint.
but victim sensitive like this,
is a terminal condition.
there is reasonable suspicion
in every workweek of witness
that the source-point of consciousness, thrives.
beyond baseline behaviors
and the hidden agenda of trauma,
a oneness beckons
that the distraction of experience denies.
quantum is not reducible to known.
yes, to give up the know,
to oneness, be . . .