An antique vase, made for admiration,
the sky is filled with pigeons.
Begonias. The nights are with
excellence. Manics are prehistoric.
Dinosaur DNA. Saffron horizons. Things
seem indifferent. Are they?
Russet wood. Sweet grapes. Pomegranates.
Life is fueled by treasures. The
ache is chained to flesh. Fetters are broken.
One will search for clarity, find
dry wilderness, maintained in motives.
Upon a harmonica, plagued by “meaning,”
intense senses, mystic thoughts.
High rise glaciers, on the fringe
of humanness, life is dependent on stories.
Many mythical creatures, sworn to sunrise,
miracles travel a long distance, arriving on time.
The church is filled, the bride is
proud, the groom is Mystical.
What if sin proves terrific, a
requirement, needed for entrance?
The pledge was to adorn spirits,
parts made of pieces, if one person in life!
To adore for eternal reasons, like
lithic existence, a soul filled with dove tails.
The moon will soak in crimson. The
sun will become flame. Each person will become a firebird.
Are descriptions abstract? Words
point at something. Do they sustain themselves? Do we care?
Notches of philosophy have ruined
reality. Epistemology has reduced absolute reasoning to an absurdity. The
correct question is: Why do humans demand absolute certainty? Is this inherent
in us?
Fair plagues. Nice quandaries. Undoing
some impossible conundrum.
Humans as rational or irrational
creatures. Humans are selfish. Makes altruism hard to understand.
The flower is tragic—so brief its
life, so symbolic.
The squirrel marvels at the tree.
The Buddhists at the Lotus. The Christians at the meaning of the Cross.
May the days be filled with greater
wishes, undone possibilities, joy, and sullen grace.
