Why are old things delicate?
Yet delicate things aren’t old?
What’s constantly entangled?
No, that’s just tangled.
Delicacy is, entwined tangles.
Delicacy is, constantly aware.
Awareness of meeting it’s match.
Time, that constant match.
Wait…age, you’ll meet your match.
Stop…life, no time to catch.
Sometimes, I think, there is nothing I can think, that hasn’t been thought before, given my circumstances.
But then again, my circumstances are unique. As are all of ours.
But now particularly.
From what I can see, and from what I have been taught…much of all our circumstances have occurred within the peripheral of, all or nothing.
But now I think, I straddle existence between all and nothing – seeing both and seeing that, it’s not a certainty that it is all or nothing. There’s a whole lot in between.
And seeing that there is stuff in between, is only the beginning of forever. Because there’s more infinity traveling towards nothing, than trying to maintain the journey that you see.
So I have learned, not from myself but from life itself, that we are bound to be drawn to nothing. To want, to learn, to know, more about what nothing is.
It seems nothing, is the thing, I want to know about.
‘If’, I think, is the beginning of all journeys.
If a choice exists,
for you to take,
of the one you’ve taken.
It’s true that you have taken,
a journey to frustration.
You have no choice,
as to where you’ve travelled.
You have no choice,
devoid of substance.
I’m substance of,
what will be travelled.
knows it’s direction
Despite of all
So choose, despite the obvious
and see, that being curious,
is IF, all over again.
If you want to know how the universe is, watch a starling murmuration.
Watching unique parts arrange,
presiding back, where beauty’s from.
And knowing nothing, quite the same,
from unique parts, is chaos born.
Observing this, one could relate
one’s own experience.
Unique part, myself creates,
yet still I see the us.
And seeing we, and knowing that
to move is not unique.
Unique disturbed, from part to part,
chaotic beauty, lays in between.
Us people, we bear the cross.
A weight, ourselves have caused.
Seek relief, and suffer loss,
what use, to stop and pause?
No use at all, as we endure
and ponder life unbound.
Endure we must, to be secure
so follow those, claim to be found.
One trait exists, it weaves within,
reveals itself as pure.
Security, in love or sin,
wins both by peace and war.
Peace, hard thing to define;
war is much the same.
Choose, cross carried by Devine,
or freedom’s fight, ourselves to blame.
Age is something plants don’t die of. Continuously reproducing bodies. Back to nothing, a pollinated seedling. Spring green, starts poking out of dead things.
Not dead, but Green’s experience.
Green, seeing death, where it came from, foreseeing his life is succumbing, back to its arrival…and dying.
And Green as we return to, and constantly reminded, it’s possible, by living, We’re dying.
But each Green returning, from more Greens before him, starts seeing, it’s more Greens ahead.
So those that are dead, saw those Greens ahead. Are you dead, seeing the Green that’s beyond, or Green, seeing death, where you’re from?