even enough is too much
sensate is overwhelm
identification is too loud
and way too breathy
observation is an affliction
experience is an addiction
closed-minded is my rebellion
a darkened room is my cover
minimalism speaks kindly to me
please, one sense at a time
I need underwhelm to recover
a death without dying
sleep with slow-motion dreams
a peek-hole of a sliver of external detection
something to slightly counter
the stampede of my breath
a pool to stare in,
where all words evaporate there from
a womb-sense that is singular and comforting
hell, life as a pre-conception
where I am still of the ponder
entertaining the notion there of
and then,
what a blessing to be here and now
(as I can be repentantly discovered) . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment