Under a Wesak Moon
...here we plug along. Sense is a
human
construct.
Silent knowledge that can’t
be quantified, measured. It is more
subjective,
contextual, subtle,
ethereal.
Yet vital.
Such instinct, lore, ought
not be lost, drowned in prideful ownership,
nor discounted for quick profit on the
popular market.
Traveling through water.
Unraveling.
Rebelling.
Revel in loud telling
fancy tales for a shilling.
Skillfully fade; still outside of
jail.
Intimate with rambling river
--
advised never expect a binding
code.
Love ‘em or hate ‘em
we club ‘em and mate
‘cause it’s all we know.
Tomorrow is only a threat.
Tonite is the moment we met.
To live by chance of regret could do us
wrong.
Listen to me. I’m a song.
Why invoke Love, so imprecise an
instrument,
when desire craves divine-like
acceptance,
adoration of sparks within us,
all that can inflame
madness, empathy, a symphony, a cure for
anything.
Love can become rational answer if the
world of we
define it as sanity.
Health, enlightened cooperation, love’s
inspiration
to keep us all at the top of our
form.
Love fresco of swooping
angels,
vowed to fly us to our highest
goal.
Bliss,
aspiration enriched.
Taste bittersweet long accumulated
heritage.
That metallic tang of blood, carbon bonds
descended
through rock, dust,
skeletons deconstructed to reclaim from
waste.
Black swans, dragons, screeching birds
surge through flame,
ever re-emerging,
carry potential energy into consecrated
deserts.
Sleep well in comfort of serene will.
Tomorrow
we learn to bloom.
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