… and it was a sage, an artist, a gift inside, while feeling gift-less.
Such contention, running spigots, dungeon skies.
The sun came out, it remains tenacious, despite what it sees.
I remember a small slingshot, a marble, at play.
Such an unexamined life, prior to pure condition. To feel disgruntled. To sense contradiction.
We say it’s paradox.
Ripples in a pond. Gentle geese. A bench. Seed. A sense
of ease: pure illusion.
In search of static reality, a groping chase.
To say, the stars belong to us!
Each axiom seems predisposed; each thought is a preposition;
each article was forged in anguish.
… and it was a sage, an artist, a gift inside, while feeling gift-less.
