I am wandering in an atmosphere
that has no surface, still, no boundaries.
it has a distant voiceless calling.
it is a consummate fragrance addressing me.
it possesses a far-flung badgering past
and a distinct vaguely nagging future.
this inherent worth lives inside of me
as an unrealized wealth.
having a mind for the all of it
is not the imminent calling.
yet it has a deep carriage
somehow weighing upon me.
but I naively want to experience it
as embrace.
for I have only come to sharply know of myself
better as a deep well hidden away but surging
yet that is not the true source of this streaming
that eerily fills me.
I daily drink my destiny
but only to appease
the immediacy of a dust-dawn thirst.
the inherent wealth of all of this
is beyond my ability to grapple into grasp.
I can only identify with soft urgings that compel.
I have no certitude to concretized my stance
or my efforts to reach the whatever’s of beyond.
what is divine will not answer to my callings.
it appears I am playing a drum that has no skin.
it would be crazy of me
to ask thunder to clear my throat,
for rain to cry my tears in the absolute.
my willfulness is drawing with melting crayons
on storylines I make up
as if to script this pretend for reality’s sake.
I don’t believe in the existence of gravity
and yet that part of me that doubts
seem to also claim it to be so.
I can go no further
and yet the babbling search is made clear to me
that I am taken along.
for I can’t seem to ask a world of answers
exactly for what was my question asked.
time is the only dyslectic response I hear.
listening to my soul repeat in stutters,
knowing I am its only keeper.
I seem to wander in large circles
that exponentially repeat themselves within me.
where apparently I have left breadcrumbs
from previous go-arounds
that I come upon to nourish me for now.
I can go no further
that doesn’t also take me there.
it is made clear to me
that the mind of the self,
is and will be,
the last to know . . .
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