it all plays

what does raw feel like,

without the mindful efforts as whittle-down?

what is inception,

when no beginning will lay its claim?

what is it,

that experience pilfers for fumes into delight?

is a mistake,

the bible of wisdom, 

yet rightly taken from the wrong path?

is expertise,

ever in this moment, 

without fallback on its mind?

how I feel,

I would never say.

but what I feel,

I will tell you,

as if my words could do what they say.

for our in-depth conversation 

is always at the seashore of so stated.

where we are both of the liquid itself, 

which is beyond that of observing.

it goes on without verbal interruption.

every splash, 

as if for every tear,

signifies but does not reveal.

essence of being wears no clothes,

has no formidable boundaries,

doesn't have truth, 

as its eventual timely projection.

for no drop in the ocean is distinguished

by the nature of high contrast.

and if two ever touch,

it is viscosity that expresses their love.

I have physicality to express, 

as my drop as self.

but I have spirit, 

as my current of aliveness,

to bask and evaporate,

from mountaintop to ocean depths,

as if, liquidity's mystery and tease.

it all plays, 

as if raw does indeed feel . . .