the thickness of the Air which divides Us
Why is it you just don’t understand ? Divides us from you to me ? The make believe of our unique differences. The silly stupid pride, gasing the highlights of our unlikely very personal perception. How can you be so damn dumb, and me alike. Seeming to be so real, yet so very miraculous all just the same, as we still sweep the wind with our stride into nothingness, being here. Each of us staring like a Cerberus on the cliff of no thing. To the beyond where we must stop to ponder ?
Daring with all that we can muster, to say a thing or two, and that, having absolutely no consequence ! Shamelessly happy with the pictures hanging in the opinionated estate of our biological minds. A glass of beer or wine, a reward to the dumbfounded muted castrated brain.
A holy comfort assuaging the lazy soul.
But happiness, is to always be right when ever we have something to say, a thing or two. But the wind divides us. Its thickness, quickens the heartfelt calamity of all who say, “but am I not the world’s belly button. The kernel germinating the bio sphere of take and go, and get some for me before it’s too late, …while another might become the holder of applause getting there before I can squander my vital fluids once again just to say but I was right and he was wrong ? And what of that and what for ?
You can have her if that’s all you want. My Lust is for greater horizon of the secret Universal Soul.
The Air between us is filled with beings. Invisible creatures who come and go. Inhabiting the transparent flowery heather separating us. Laughing or pranking. They even open doors, closets. Place my slippers at my feet. They change the scenery around me for my pleasure . They make believe you see something while what you see and say strays into the byway. Coming back at you.
Like a lost tidal wave brimming at the rim of the earth, hitting you in the face, cascading eternal love and light and majestic happiness.
Never being there. Like an ancestor in the tomb. A tree was there. And now it’s not. Later, it’s back. And what of that ?!
Oh, but the Aryan Man is above debate. He’ll waste no time on the whether it comes and or goes. His Soul is the Golden Place of the Wondrous Heart, indented into infernal flames of the Iron Plastic-siliconed Age.
In War he is at Peace. Among the common folk gets board.
See now, how the fog has lifted. Wherefore unto this our eyes have melted as One.