ahem
We are very good at breathing
We do it each and every day,
That’s a lot of practice!
Makes a steady beat, eh?
A beat with seasons, what makes rotations,
And compels the wind to make animations.
As the chef needs seasoning,
So the earth started thinking.
Soon, there’s singing by the water:
“Breathing is the beat,” it says,
“Thinking is the dance.”
Ah, but syncing is the trance!
Of those early songs were these,
The song of the sorry note tease.
It goes like this: the woods, the myth
The minor call, the woken rift
The baffled word,
the frozen holy rule, yeah
Holy rule yeah, upon a time,
There was a sorry note
And as glass shatters,
So shards made a sorry melody,
Here a lone buck sits listening
By a silver pool, let’s say
She danced a simple question:
“Why so sorry, this melody?”
And the reply came in strong,
And the reply came in song:
Ceiling of ice,
Spirit of bone,
Ceiling of ice,
Spirit of bone,
So we skip to nirvana
All of soul,
All of soul.
Flow, flow, flow your heart.
Gently as a meme.
Verily, verily, verily, verily,
Life is a live stream.
Every step a treatise on the fool card,
All writ within the king’s courtyard,
Pronouns are we/us
Who writes a draft thus,
Upon the lip of the wind.
We give it freely to time,
who will rewrite it.
We do a quick sketch
On the scraps at hand.
Then dye the fields
On a canvas plane wide.
We expel in phases the rites of rhyme,
But this, too, shall be expelled.
As unto this, equal and opposite unto that,
And so on, ad astra infinitum.
Our equal in opposite! Zeroed be your game.
Our kingdom come! Our will but sum!
All similar as it is indifferent!
Amen.
In phases Our savior
Our savior in phases
Outside the arc of congealed types,
And Inside the mono of repeated types.
Beyond representation of the great beyond,
On paper or memory, on rewind or forward,
As crust writes rhymes in dry cracks
So dust is blown in sweet dance,
As geysers spur lusty sighs,
So moss hugs fallen towers.
And rainbows form in airborn frost,
for all those who care to look.
In trance, in trance
In phases, in trance
In sustenance we trust
By knife or other must
We go, or are thrown thus.
Health upon sick thrust,
And rust on metal bust.
The word called out: duality,
And prescribed itself divinity.
Holy rule, yeah, holy rule, yeah,
As sure as leaves turn to face the sun
So does root sink to loot the fun
None and some, here and there,
To each is given a place:
To time its rest,
And death its fest,
To inhale its outside
And thinking its inside
From other we draw up our self,
And upon self we thrust down other,
From spirit according to our trance
And to night according to our chance
We are very good at breathing,
And all this thinking just a dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment