High experience introduces us
to our internal rhythms in sync
weaving the future un-drummed
yet it is us, becoming so.
We,
as cranial snow-capped mountains,
savor this inner
visioning as vast
as
if dripping off of a wondrous deep well sky that comes to
us as thought-form serenades.
Our evaporative
feet dance in the forest as if
pleasing trees.
The context for nothingness drives us mad
yet
movement, energetic movement, as the savior, is as a
relentless trickle of pulse.
It
sanctions the enfolds of our ripening,
wakes us up
whenever and wherever, puts us, feet
first
into a chosen tingly stream of being. The
cool of it, as living, is summoning, each
second, fluidly confirming,
endorphins from
within our self-orphanage. We
are, unto ourselves, each, endorphanage . . .
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