conclusion as a piece of work

conclusions are aging shrapnel.

rust produced forthcoming,

even from breathing out to say.

still shots taken to the mind

as memory eyes those images,

seen, heard or otherwise.

judgment is the mechanism of capture.

an imprint intended for a version of stone,

in a memory quarry already littered

by the dynamite of experience happening.

and then there is the debris of intake,

all that, frozen in memory's regard.

when all we wanted was the zest of impression,

the sensory embrace of the flush or the flash.

anything that presents as a cutting edge

to the linger of imprint's false steadiness.

wanting to drive the moment 

off the road of monotony's goal.

to get to another conclusion

that dies hard in the free-fall of cognition.

asking the prayer of motion,

to save us from gathering the dust of habit,

to keep us afloat in movement's sensory need,

to live free from the conveyer belt of familiarity,

to fresh-face with the embrace of discovery,

to levitate with thoughts' first view,

and not driven to comparative thought as demise.

just wondrous and endearing, 

and as uncomplicated can be, 

so mysteriously can present

conclusions as a way of life slobber.

they track down as if hunting,

using a skillset of rendered into tedium. 

if conclusion had the life span 

and metaphorical usefulness of saliva,

then so be it 

as the beginning of the digest process.

be it lingered and labored and memory retained

until it becomes a prosthetic of futility's reward.

and so we forget how to waterski the moment

but reside in keeping track of all the lakes

we ever skied upon.

experience as a viewing screen is dastardly.

experience had a life of first taste, first plunge,

but then became a scrapbook gathering.

experience needs to be 

watching a spider spinning,

smelling a flower scenting,

two auras, yours being one of them, meeting.

where within harmonics generate feelings,

and the passion for the next moment appearing.

conclusions have opinions about spiders,

want to, more importantly, name the flower,

have an opinion of another based on looks,

guard what feelings come

and get apprehensive about the next moment,

as if expectation hasn't properly been introduced.

oh if conclusions were only hairballs launched,

only swallows in passing,

only idle minds in windswept mountain passes,

only the prayers we say

from gravity to keep us grounded but not sane.

conclusions laboring in perpetual, 

loosing their wings of sight

and flying blindly into each next moment,

forgiven from basking in credentialed and certified,

could ever be aware of stringless harps,

or waterfalls of conversation in whisper-passing,

or dilemmas professing to the art of seeking soul.

every conclusion should be the life of a chrysalis

in the making.

and for the sake of humankind,

nothing more . . .