The way inward and outward are the same,
it is common to all,
it is contained in our past and our present;
all of our time is a perpetual memory,
point to one end or another- an echo,
our thoughts are echoes in a world
To what purpose shall we follow them?
Are they no more than dead leaves-
the deception of trees
falling into the earthenware of our souls.
Look down into your drained pools of thought,
fill it with water from inside your head,
and then a cloud passes and your
pool is empty again,
we cannot bear much reality-
what might have been,
what has been;
it is much like clots of mud in the saucers
of your veins,
circulate them, the scars which you carry;
they are neither flesh nor fleshness-
reconcile them with stitches.
We are still at the point, but do not call it
a fixity, it is more like a suffering relief,
a motion made explicit protecting us from
damnation (a weakness of our ever changing bodies);
it can be endured, but only in time.
A particular moment that allows us a
the beat of rain on the tin of our bodies;
the cleansing of our souls.
Our bits of paper we carry around
like unwholesome lungs,
time before and time after.
The end and the beginning- lead us not into temptation,
only our cause can end its movement;
quick now, here, always-
shake the wainscot
of emotion, the loosened panes of doubt;
lean against a loved one in a warm haze.
Lift your feet from those clumsy shores of stimulants,
risk enchantment, stay away from the facades
of the unconscious.
What you own is not what you own,
your health is not a disease deteriorating
like a soundless wail.
Fruition, fulfillment, disown your past-
enfold into a new life.