Minimalist expressions of up and down
Point the way to your demise.
Short, broken sentences fill your mind.
Hats, Mats, and Fires die.
You can't tell the difference
Between where, for, art, and thou.
Random capitals and paper plates,
Fans, plans, and tried sands.
You take your sight to full size.
Life takes over.
It flows to the sun
And dries in space.
It is a living, breathing thing.
(Although it has no  mind.)
Life controls destiny, but not choice.
As if,by not choice, it is destiny.
Life swings to the beat of the planets.
It swivels like a hazard
And lifts like a noose.
Life is a being,
Just like you and me.
Although it has no friends or enemies,
No Students or lovers,
No Sisters or brothers,
Life wants to be like the rest of us.
But life can't.
It flows throught the galaxies looking for a purpose.
To find a reason why it's still here.
Life wants to know.
Just like us.
Life wants to know why it's being corrupted,
Or damaged, or abused.
Life wants to know why It's rights are being taken.
Just like us.
Life wants to know why it can't sleep at night,
Why it can't think clearly,
Why it can't find enlightenment.
Just like us.
But life doesn't know.
So life keeps going on it's unknown path to somewhere.
And life will keep doing so till the day it dies.
Just like us.
It's good to know that we have so much in common with something so grand.

Silver roses breaking hearts.
Beds with silver linings
And piles of piles.
Waiting all day in place
For a person.
Take a number,
stand in line.
You're not the first person here.
He takes up his instrument,
And plays one song.
The only song he knows.
The song of life.
Playing E sharps and B flats,
He composes as he plays.
But he's not improvising.
(He play's what's meant to be)
His song sounds different to all
Because their lifes goes to the music.
If he plays a bad chord,
You get backstabbed.
It he adds a sixth,
You lose a love.
If he plays a major,
You have a laugh.
If he plays a m7,
You fufill a dream.
But sometimes bad chords sound best.
And sometimes good chords make disharmony.
But then again,
Why do you care?
You don't decide your life,
He does.
Everyone is under his control.
Including him.
His song is powerful.
Even if he isn't.
His music is what sets him apart.
But he's just forcing you to hear his song.
You can't stop listening.
Even if you try.
He adds twists
And turns
And buckles
And cliffs
And jumps
And unrealistic explosions.
But, he doesn't know why he's even there.
He thinks,
"Why can't someone else play this?"
He's confused,
Is it true or is it not?
Or are his thoughts controlled by want?
He doesn't know,
So he continues on.
His song dies down,
Ending anti-climactically.
But as his story ends,
It starts again.
It turned out,
Time was cyclic.

These things come with guidelines,
Like things you see on TV.

These things have to tell you all that goes into it.
(Except for the bad stuff, of course.)

These things have to be seen with four eyes:
The two of the writer and the two of the seer.

These things have to have a meaning,
Like a children's book.

These things have to make sense,
Just for the rest to understand.

These things have to be thought about deeply,
They can't be made on a whim.

These things have to be the same,
While still being different.


Or,
Don't.

Instead,
Make a new justice.

And.

The first word is thought,
But not the last.
Involuntary movements,
Involuntary thoughts,
Are all caused by the mind.
You may not want it,
But your mind does.
Your mind wants you to wake in the night
With a sudden jolt.
Your mind wants you to have to fight a thought
Out of your mind.
Or are you out of your mind?
Are you flying where your mind isn't?
Or are you in fear of death, in fear of wrath.
Your mind and your body are two different things.
And your mind is in control.

Sounds like flashes of light,
And other mixed up senses:
Sights of a smell,
Tastes of an emotion,
A dread from the ears.
It all works properly,
Even if it is wrong.
It's just like a clock that runs in a backward manner:
It's right at least two times a day.
It's still clockwork,
Even if it's being wound up.

Events lost in the future.
Little twigs hitting windows.
Bones are crunching in your mind.
You hear a shivering man minus the skin.
The hail pelts his skull and his brain.
His thoughts are to be forgotten, but not yet.
They are still plausible.
They are still possible.
But who can hear him?
He's dead.