we are the weavers of this cultural fabric.
but where on earth did we get this fiber?
and what is it presently composed of?
what end point purpose
does all this knit-of-it eventually serve?
is it from the nuances of this,
already woven fabric,
that is the reality
we weave that becomes further more,
our existence?
are we honestly from before
this coming spread,
this secondhand of the now weave
that we make cognition to exist?
are we but a parlance
of unconscious hand-me-downs,
as from past generations
as their methods of coping?
is it the false collective of us
standing up for a two-faced moral code?
that we could never honestly decipher
and if by resolution, ever achieve?
does the truth of the matter
ever on its own, come to now exist?
are we but of a conversational meddling
in each others private affairs?
at levels of personal execution
that actually feature denial
but appear to be constructed otherwise?
each of us for now,
being a brand
that is a sell-out to ourselves
before we get to come from soul.
is our experiment, in the execution of life,
that we can't really ever relax
when the framing of projection
is all about self
in the subtleness of recovery?
from past generations
that have passed it on,
can't figure for myself
more than for this moment's worth.
just living on in the burden
but dreaming richly above the float.
we are a curator's existence
ongoing as revisitation
of the past made present.
comparative truth for us is loaded
with boldfaced denials.
we are vulnerability,
living in privacy
that is not readily observed.
witness where we each hurl from.
know each other from way before.
for all of us,
we have desperate needs to realize
that smart conversation is intimate
beyond all that these words do say.
be from before the weave,
from before we are these hands
that weave
we need to be
the wisdom of our hearts
before this life of our busy hands
ever takes up the apparency
of this weave . . .
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