in the fall of the year,
I rake up the leaves on the ground.
asking each leaf,
for the story of their tree.
each from their own perspective.
self is a lot like that,
when working from memories.
only to eventually discover
that the truth of livingness
can never be told.
for every cloud, by view,
is meaningful.
but by being,
is beyond meaning's account.
for being is before meaning had
a basis of existence.
that is,
is before senses had a busyness.
even sound had an existence
before hearing had an audience perspective.
that which took up the physical
was way before sight of it occurred.
it was only humans
that made taste seem personal.
and maybe,
just maybe,
made all of experience
myopic and prejudicial.
as if all of experience
is life in a life-vest of awareness.
floating in a sea
of eventual monotony.
riding on uncontrollable currents
towards imaginary images,
that eventually fade,
yet seeking rescue as truth.
yet ever present in the see of sensory,
as if we are all in phantom foregrounds,
highlighted against,
what appears to be backgrounds of certainty . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment