the myth of flight

the myth of story as itself, lies. 

yes lies,

between the end of the beginning's introductions 

and the beginning of the end as claiming departure.

for truth is the ever, forever, 

in the chrysalis stage.

as human consciousness, 

is ever the state of ponder.

whereby what will it take

for worldliness to manifest from its roots? 

experience will pander at delights with wonder.

and we will eventually all find ourselves 

on the same shared irrelevant pages,

either by script account 

or by the reading of ourselves, 

as if the itness is alive.

and yet, now is always the secret awareness 

of our radiance out-pouring, 

but otherwise happening, 

as the experience of sensory incoming as overlay.

and that is how the now-narrative floats us,

in endless stories, 

being told in the mind. 

expectation, of course, is a reader there, 

as well as self in response 

in under breath concerns.

fear is always a scriptwriter for that to occur.

hardly a moment of presence is in the now

without override deeming what attention spans.

bring me a poignancy of fragrance to focus,

an emotion that is otherwise deeply rooted within,

a sense of character lost without a script response,

a translation of what an alien 

just whispered into my ear.

did I just hear a species wake-up call?

anyone else?

chaos is just our vision, out of focus,

as if mind without an explanatory path approach.

the sky of mindfulness

is filled with the confetti of topics.

and there is free-fall, 

as what diligence notices.

even fascination has to come up for a breather.

there is noise as particles in the awareness air,

yet quiet resides as breathables. 

and alarm is only a state of mind,

while being, as the verb, lives quite honestly, on.

this is, as if the mind has a life of its own.

the myth of story lies there.

yes, lies,

between the expectation, as a perceptual style, 

and the claiming, as relevance personified. 

for truth is the ever of the chrysalis stage

of human consciousness.

ponder wants for the butterfly

and worldliness, for the winds.

for each of us, 

wants for human existence, 

to care to fly . . .