honesty, spoken,
is actually a method of suicide.
and the ink, worthy of note,
is in the blood flow of time.
mindfulness, as a way of observation
only has the form of spectatorship,
in which everything observed
is to become the shackles bound by the withheld.
since all of language has the blatant potential
to exist only as the laydown skeletons of concrete,
in a sinking sea of memory,
some of language can become but the justice of handcuffs,
even less of language can exist as the binding of silk rope,
and even less of that less as language can exist
as a stifle of inspirational fragrance,
and, although not very likely,
language can sacrifice itself in commitment to spirit.
but there is no sensibility to the killing of language.
there is more a need
for the transcendence, up, up and away from language,
as if it’s left behind, wildly abandoned
as if it is a vacated skill set,
honed from a lesser state existence
that we have departed from,
by the lack of need and the absence of usage
in the true ascendance of our consciousness as beings . . .
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