life is a sleeper-berth on a matrix-train.
from the onset of birth as in darkness,
there is always ways and means of motion.
identity sips from these fluid waves.
animation is hiding the truth in there.
forever and belief walk-out, hand in hand
from the cavern of understanding
that sees for the light of day.
no one ever leaves the bed of their life
without feeling a sense of gravity as an imposter.
time introduces me to concepts
like; here to there, the use of memory,
locale, expectation as a given,
and method as successful containment.
I don’t now how bothering with all of this works
but it appears to formally exist.
this is all, a forest of ethers,
to others around me.
I seem to labor at it
as if it is the task at hand.
so far I have discovered
that grip is quite different from grasp
and for me to assume that touch and embrace
have the same parents,
is now in question.
it isn’t that I enjoy the sip of tea
as much as it is that the tea races through me
searching for a connection
beyond the taste and the warmth displayed.
honestly, breath is the original tea
and my palate for that is quite habitual and bland.
I am not sure if thirst is as richly real
as much as ventilation of being fulfills a need.
why then do I feel demeaned by details?
I only want a truth that has no frame,
honesty as quantum existence,
and a mindfulness without depiction as a must.
every lament I make
is a last breath of that part of me
that lives in the substance composed of absence.
all of this, this language, is made of dander,
and I scratch to get the know out of me.
every say we make
is a wave on the beach of self
away from the ocean of being
we come from . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment