My
senses are my prison bars.
They prohibit me by what I believe to be so.
As
recognition is my grip, I stand here withheld,
proving my existence with an
endless download of
smallness in validation.
This cellular chamber does not sing my heart.
I feel
for these confines
as if I am in a paperweight
of another life of edifice and
small-mindedness handling me as function.
I wanted a species of togetherness,
not of sensory binds.
I aspired to a time-space where language is not needed,
where all eyes are everywhere as one,
as if view was questioned as actually a
necessary means.
To be of a medium where touch is absent,
replaced by the
oneness of together-feel.
To be where focus is always in all ways the whole
and
attention is a communing from the one heart.
To rise up from our reality
syndrome,
to be the fibers of drawnness
that go beyond the provocations and the
account.
Yet in a quantum sense,
all our worldly props are vibratory
instruments of play.
The sound of harmony stirs our mutuality of soul.
For
then, my prison is a cup of tea,
served to sip on this journey into one
yet
while still infatuated with listening
that is of the oneness, calling . . .
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