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that ostensible porridge of self…

bearing nothing but the fruits of ignorance granting us a reflective quality to perceive passed mistakes within the mind’s eye projected forward as to allow the future it’s chance to change from further than that failed version envisioned by the naysayers with no psalm to soothe like balm the pursuit for calm and cool a collected perspective viewed remotely from this tomb written as tome scored for those under foot as perilous cages break free of their supposed bondage within this casual caustic cosmic womb sifted like a box shaken loose of the ashes and bones as when stored away in the dirt, but this is not ever in an end of itself trapped to repeat the same steps in sequence with the others dancing lost oblivious in tempo with the many various oscillations that vibrate together to equate this universe as one entity as it tries understanding us from both inside and out with numbers of people not caring about stating the obvious to the others who like themselves pay attention to only those shallowest depths that couldn’t even catch the emotional drip of percolating memories and experience brewing these fascinating human beings alive born Now unto the current paradise losing the struggle to cancerous forces as multiplying and decimating an unknown amount of future potential, this spirit a mirror breaks all illusions reflected back at those whom believe the lies whose disguise is cryptic and insidiously perceived with as subtle an intent or ulterior a motive thrust forward intrusively into people as the proboscis of the culex driven in to suckle upon the churning laps of the blood as they race across the sum of our parts beating raw as the bleeding heart forced into the streets for a cause taking and analyzing our motions trusting others coming into question… believing ourselves offensive in defending this privileged base from which we all derive the source of our power or to force our various selves to cower before a swelling might and awe of the ego creatures whose dependence has become a twisted disarray spun out of sequence in our dramas playing into unsavory hands and plans marked with our destruction somewhere in the lore as a lure to which we are pulled like gravity, the maps we read like the books and words blooming as our inner nature sparks flames of imagination to conceive of these novelties we might have felt forbidden to consider cherishing as our own as we each enter into journeys separate yet inseparable from what appears the greater glory of wholeness through which we are sinking ships in a sea of ideas, but form limits what we see when we perceive the glories through these tiniest of narrowed avenues we call mind building up a retained repertoire of methods to ease the madness of living so tragically as the beasts of burden in an endlessly spinning wheel as conceptually forcing us to move throughout our own story backwards and forward as the progression requires us to act whether anonymous agent or distinct as bright burning stars…

Thanks, khet.