Our senses are collaborators
in our crime of experience.
Recognition, by its gestures,
is our admittance of guilt.
What we put to memory
is reinforcement
within our consciousness,
in our migration away from
our essence of being.
By the time our consciousness
comes to words,
we are committed to meaning
as if it were tattoos
of the damned
walking in a experiential
death march
on the dusty unpaved
yet intimate road of time.
Our creativity within these confines
that lead to manifestation
as its end product,
is soulless.
Most of our lives
is a dumb-down entrainment
away from the oneness
and into the myopia
of small minded diversity
as our identity.
Forsaking the known,
not for its knowledge
but for its method
of identification of the self
and its propensity for carriage
as a personal code held within,
risks the possibility
of a connectivity to soul
that does not respond
to our version of inquiry
nor does it answer
in parallel
to any of our accepted
interpretative means.
And so it goes . . .
I don’t know you,
ever, no matter what,
but I am one with you
beyond proof
or determination
as a conviction of self.
I, rather we,
cannot simply go on dying
in such an elaborate pretend,
so separate like this . . .
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