how does bitter truth tastefully done feel,
when noticing it,
as if it is rude?
why does commentary
have to then intercede?
what made mind such a negotiator
as if a crossing guard in my brain?
to save me from what?
I didn't ask for concrete and shoes.
but here it is,
meeting my walking,
every step of the way.
maybe I wanted to feel barefooted
and to hear forest path story telling.
maybe I would have appreciated
deep over-night snow,
early morning melting,
as appreciated ankle deep listening
to white silence singing new melodies
from their night time in the making,
as my foot for ears enjoys
the chill of this listening.
I wanted my senses
to take the hand of my mind
and adventure it.
not my mind to steer me,
so that sensory
was the hum of reoccurrence.
I wanted wit in audience
not as the conductor.
every breath is a page turn.
orchestra, play something off the page.
scheme instruments I haven't heard.
make melodies that humble my grasp.
I want for melt not might.
I want for embrace
to teach inner remarks.
bless me to be sensuously aware.
please take me,
by anointing . . .
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