to that which is of itself

that which is of itself 

is finding a means of going beyond

that of its containment,

seeking a greater might

that yet comes to a subtle fruition,

is a greater sense of the whole,

without the grossness of itself in sight.

for it to realize 

its essential integrity of being,

gives a greater consciousness to itself.

to go vast by alignment into the collective,

into a sense of wholeness, 

that was never from before

yet has always been totally true.

all of everything reaches for that oneness.

and even beyond the evidence of display,

to be a clarity of connectivity,

to be through the presence of the all,

yet oneness before 

ever in mass of declaration.

this is the energetic environment of means

that secretly lives 

behind and within the itself.

we are all there,

as well as all of nature that we perceive.

each apparently on specific timelines 

of carriage

but ever so the oneness 

that has declared as mass,

allowing form to speak us

and animation to dance us along.

for every stage is a show of itself

but not always seen as such.

some means have the patience of concrete

while others have nanosecond lives.

we, as a species, somewhere in the middle,

strung between spores and geodes,

between deep sea creatures 

and updraft thermals.

humans bury the axe of being

as if stalwart and relevant.

we have sigh and impatience,

fury yet confined.

we claim to be the ink of the story told

but the book of the material plain

belongs to mass 

and the expression of nature.

we are just recently along for the ride.

our species pride is only a mirror 

of self induction.

we are still foreigners to this land.

what wisdom gained,

may die in the hearts of those who matter.

all is molecular as if mortal.

we invented the genius of intelligence

and then suffer the consequences. 

what is confluence in nature

is confounding to us 

as masters of our world.

we will all sleep on it, so to speak.

maybe we dream ourselves into alignment

and yet still wake to another day.

we are exiled to a selfdom 

yet blessed in disguise

to that which is of itself

until it is other wise . . .