Each grain of sand before us
requires separate washing instructions
an obliging mother ocean fulfills.
A feverish dating service has arranged
our feet meeting earth
at every step, for the first time.
Ourselves, we are watercolor palettes
to realize oil-base perceptions.
Rebels to a paint-inside-the-lines world.
We have diurnal conversation
piped into our nocturnal brains
generating our perpetual motion machines.
We are embraced by lullabies of noise,
with conversations out shouting the hum.
We are mutations migrating away from belief.
Days with attitude as consent are forming.
Documentation is now becoming a disability.
Insurance is a death wish lottery played.
Controversy is a voyeuristic press pass.
Knowledge is a cancer yet undiagnosed.
Ownership is a false hope lock down.
Yet we are pen pals to every grain of sand.
The sea becomes their foster parents,
but every grain is writing home to us.
Each molecule is vibe dancing to the beat.
Notice, for humans, is a cognitive embrace.
Yet each form contains a formless mystery.
We are phantoms with personalities.
Vapor inhalations give us other-realm elixirs.
For now, it is a shallow breathing line of trust.
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