Your lunar crescent dips
beside my tide, your moon glow lips, rippling,
slips me into a deep, watery sleep.
I am but a dancer beside you; your third eye glares into me:
spectacular stars in twilight;
swirls entrance like Starry Night in Van Gogh's day dreams.  

Come dream with me!
Come cleaner than the day you were conceived.
Show me the face that you had before you were born.
Closer, we combine the forces of nature: sublime.
We,  in One Self
unfold as the universe unfolds.

Sweet trinity, holy inspiration,
that those stars would gaze upon me,
and I those stars.

Its not a matter of your body or your age
the truth doesn't carry weight, but sets the stage
for the flow of knowledge: wisdomage.

To abandon nothing, but reinvent everything
including the wheel of your mind;
a complete surrender, absent knowing;

Inheriting nothing, reinventing nothing
including the dreams that you are;
a complete surrender to the way thus far.

We cherish the day, met humbly
without a care, in side and out a tribe in harmony
creating together, sans competition:
pacific planets orbiting the Sun.

Hands, as delicate flowers fraulein.
Life so delicate, yet strong as spidroin.  

Daughter, mother, life, death;  tethered Aura
of preternatural forces, you are Sophia on Quora.

I am now realizing what's more ah
sweet aura, for the fores of life to crystallize and form a wet web;

A rainbow of sunshine's warm energy, sweet synergy,
dancing between the alpha and omega, love's light in victory.

It's only when silence fell between us
that I knew how lovely was the sound.

My thoughts betray me, as I betray you.

*
And more and more I am starting to see
there are too many dip ***** on the dance floor for me
to continue to dance, and seek romance
with a foolish face of humanity.

Who's self portrait is this,
ragged, aged, what did I miss?
An unkind future's true mistress,
bewildering my mind's new witness
for an unfamiliar face to resign in bliss.

Black Lives Splatter on the heal of American Jackboot Patriotism.

When will black lives matter?
When all life ceases to be divided into races,
and we are seen as a single species,
as a spectrum rather than as separate colors.
No matter how devastating this reality may be,
it is the reality.

Struggling to stay asleep,
struggling to stay awake.
With a lover in my bed,
and her soft skin in my head
I cannot sleep so she cannot sleep,
and after a ten hour shift at 3 am
her head is in the z zone,
but I am wide awake.

My heart and my head are the master
of this moment. Of this moment
I am a chastised babe wanting more,
ever more; and she, a hot headed *****
turning the page that sans ardor.

Honey wine sups serpentine,
Sweetness blended from your mouth,
drips droopily from lips to feet,
from eyes to meet eyes and lips to lips

This heady mixture's supple spirits Electrifying,
Your hand’s soft skin flows sparks and light
and prismatic auras like a thousand butterflies
From smiling eyes, and soft soul lightening skin
Embrace my hearts subtle ecstasies  

Behind the cornucopia of your apparition
Beyond the vague attempts to charge  
Distracted by a thousand butterflies, wings a flutter
Smashed off honey-wines that flow from your lips
Yet all the more I focus on that silence in your breast  

Without a season, without a compass, without a question  
The first thought when I wake
That last before I sleep

Creating a new poem is like creating a new story
a new paradigm from the depths of history's bowls
from a nightmare, we are to create a dreamscape
something that tantalizes the soul, and draws us near
to the greater perfection within ourselves... who knew?

Creating a new poem, much like a new society
has to start from within, and be drawn out somehow,
and some will be more inspired than others to invent
their own approach, to instill their own values,
to be critical enough to recognize what is most sacred

Creating a new poem demands the ability of the artist
to take hold of his or her feelings, thoughts, and intuit
the flow of consciousness in just the right cadence
remembering the song of ages that goes and flows

Being the poet that you are, your heart is stretched and open
yet you are afraid to be as the caged bird: freedom frightens you!
And in creating your new, new poem, you would be as angels
singing from the achrimony of the ages, singing light and dark
good and evil: but remember god and devil are just a letter off both ways.

Creating a new world is like creating a new poem: if you let go
and just do it, the miracle will wash away the banality of a bygone age
and the new **** will be born as a rose red flower in flames
before the technocratic temple of bright lights and *******

Create a new art, artists, poets, and those average ager's
be a revolution in the heart, an evolution in the swing,
bring first the arrogance, then the confidence of knowing:
you are the master who makes the grass green: the universe in your eyes
the solar flare in your step, and change this world from a prison
to a paradise!

Create your new poem, and singe it like a caged bird!
Give your language the power of princes, without the pomp
believe in yourself and let go of the awkward moment you had
with the love of your dreams last night; create your new life
and transform this new poem into a rally cry for the poet class!

In culinary art, honey is my medium and my muse,
And two orange slices compose two butterfly wings.
Every piece I make is eaten
With equal joy as a painting brings.

My canvas is rose red with strands of white  
And when I paint, I use the spices:
Turmeric, oregano, chili, and old bay.
I use them on a salmon caught by a friend yesterday.

The difference between beauty and mediocrity:
beauty is a symptom of rarity and complexity;
mediocrity is a symptom of culture capital.

Whatever we can be convinced to believe
becomes the reality.
Its a brave  new 1984 world

a prison planet
Scientifically designed to launch us
directly into a black hole.

Cans of fresh Bear, stockings of the last line: arctic affair;
blue, white, a hint of green and grey.
  Marbles rolling off cool ice infinity.
Fellows, the pillows petals fall as marshmallows to our ******* mouths;
devotion to the holy ****
the holy sacrament:
arctic affair...

love I not your lips, but the words that you say
With wit and a candor we think much the same
love I not your eyes, but the way that you stare
True silence be met with the turbulent pair
love I not your cheeks, but the way which you smile
Your carefree laughing hides status the wile  
love I not your hands, but the way that you touch
Warm, temperate passion fills my body with much  
love I not your charms, but the spirit you contain  
A beauty of all life in one woman such sustain

Carrion with your illusions  
stricken with a fear of here
after. There is no pain,
no thought, no more masks;
what was hidden isn't pretty, but
more beautiful than words describe.

Sing, since the sounds of creation!
Sing till the hounds of desolation! Roll
this dancing digital hologram;
It, is all of it's self, and We are It, i and its:
together we are a planetary organism.


Death will come soon in various ways
when the candle burns from all sides,
it no longer matters how much time you have,
the flames will consume everything.
The sands of time are proof enough:
disintegration renders all to cinders on the ground.

I love you more than I can sleep,
I love you more than I can weep;
I love you when I think or pray,
I love you when I eat or play;
I love you like the poet's muse,
I love you like the summer hues.
My heart, it aches for every beat,
which thump and tremble when we meet.

That quintessential flower
        resting between thy breast,
               crowned with thorns,
         silver, chalice cup of flames;
               the light within light,
         the spirit that remains;
              far from extinction
         the scarab of all ages
                    rises as the sun,
        and I the phoenix, just begun.

    These constellations, Orion's belt,
        and illuminated fractals in the sky;
       as iridescent clouds shift by
     The cold breeze, and that creaking tree,
         For I am the snow, and the stars; I am

  Everything that you are:

If you take me by the hand,
and guide me through the door;
make me understand,
and show me what's in store;

If you can see beyond my mind,
beyond my ego, not my heart;
We can leave the past behind,
to make this new, and at the start.  

*

You told me about your evil ex.
I was broken *****, sulking when
you said he left you salty, sad
then you broke it to me:
no more bands of romance, only fun
with some one...

'not you, not yet,
maybe never.'

Now I'm standing on the outside looking in
and I realize its not about you, its about me
I just never had the self respect to really fight
for someone that made me feel worth fighting for.

Now I'm the guy that you avoid,
and you're the girl I've got to get over
to feel my sour feelings sweetened,
Now that I'm the guy that you avoid,

And that is what it feels like: a void
inside my chest, like a missing signal
a broken transmission from heaven to heart.
Sigh
And I miss the feeling of feeling.

I don't know if I want to live anymore.
To be or not to be, to see and not be seen;
those hermit eyes can see right through me.
And I feel ignored, passed over, strung out
on the wicked surface of a thousand liquid crystal screens,
on the lips of paltry kisses forgotten.  

I don't know if I want to live anymore
he says with a troglodyte twang
grappling crippled finger bones the keys of ivory sang,
dried, cracked lips with tight reed slicks the river bank.

And I am insane for being sane in an insane world.
Friendless, I feel forlorn, and like so many others,
self-reflection terrifies me more than death. Boredom,
on the border between depression and peace, between suicide and meditation.

Teetering on the edge of the abysmal,
fortunes fool animates an impetuous illusion:
the act of insignificance, the play of powerlessness.
May I die with insobriety, but in life, in spirit, inspiration.

Little old lady, sitting in a car
oh how lucky, lucky you are
to be living in a country made out of gas
all put forward to feed your fat ***.

You are incredibly worth while,
I'd bend over backwards to see your smile
When you showed me your dreams
and you sang me your song it seems
that I could never forget you
in all my heavy years to get through
to a daffy dilemma that fools fall into.
To a higher tune than the ravages of men
and a softer sound than that most often
Given on the branches of lost relations.
Salvaged by the hearts of two native nations.

(Him and Her)

There is a sinking discomfort at my core
my ego falls into a pit of quicksand, lost forever more;
lost to the lingering sorrow--for tomorrow will be
as it was today: languishing, writhing in emptiness...

To trust the world, my mothers breast,
as if the heart of man were best,
suited to the freedom that nature blessed
her children of the wild quest,
is folly of the highest order:

poverty and disorder
corruption from the roots to the fruits;
and the starving of this world abound
unseen and unnumbered.

To feel hunger, to know the dark dimension of despair;
this the tyranny of society perpetuates upon itself:
to be a pauper, a peon, a peasant, a pleb under the rule of another;
to work as a slave to someone else's cause and convenience.

To be individual instead of indivisible,
to be alright with the starving children in Africa
if it means I can buy new shoes.

Hunger does not begin or end with you.
Hunger is the slave master of a thousand and one kingdoms.
Hunger is the gatekeeper to the kingdom of heaven.
Appease him and the world will know peace.

An arid desert
hanging tear-like in the eye
of an unborn child.

Pouring, the bucket
splashes gifts upon the rich
leaving slaves to starve.

Waking, a dreamer
from lands untouched and unknown;
he sees the madness.

My life was simple, and everything comfy cosy
before you came along?
A stagnant slump, preventing me from growing.
The mere suggestion at first impetus, providence delivered,
but since you're a bittersweet memory, you will be forgotten.
I didn't really want you anyway, not your life, not your personality,
really just your affection, your honey.
Neither angry, just disappointed, not jealous, just happy.
But really deep down I'm glad you didn't pick me
and as I look deep into my heart, I know that you were poison.

Body, mind, and spirit:
  itself aware through it: self.
I witness i am.

When you build a fortress around your heart,
you not only make it harder for those who approach to enter,
but make it harder for exiles to find their exit.

In other words: the cage you build around your heart is a prison, not a sanctuary.

In this dark chamber, I am brilliant and cold,
vibrantly awaiting the moment when I'm told
that there is no reason, to be worried, to be scared,
that time has met its end, and space has been prepared;
for freedom dangles at the doorstep, a wedge of mistletoe
waiting, perfectly opposing, for our eyes to meet and know
that love is beyond the darkness of self and season,
beyond the charms that mock the right of reason,
and beyond the tides that bring forth treasures-
from lands beyond effulgent minds and measures.  


In this dark chamber, the world is but a mystery
unfolding before the eyes of dawn, and misery,
pretend victim of the thorns of love and life
stands as a messenger of the sacred knife,
to sacrifice the comfort of this ****** confines
and transcend into the heart, the center where he finds
the truth, the sun, the mystic heart, and yields
standing humble, arrogant, in Elysian fields
beyond imagination, beyond the darkness held,
a world beyond the mystery, where everything has meld.

I promise to let go of you;
not the reality of you,
but of my thoughts about you.

When I hold on to you, the idea of you,
my image of you, that expectation of you,
I lose you.

To meet you here, now, I must be me.
To love you I must love myself
because the only thing that can truly see you is me myself and I.

There is a
Sorrow on the surface of
Your eyes, and a distance
in your voice like the
Stars.
Your love seems more
like Charity, and when
You sit, your attention
,down cast, seems
Pious. There is no
age in your skin
as though you are still
being born!
And when I speak with
You, there is an emptiness
In your words, and I am made
      Happy and Sad by
Your hidden silence.

And I made you a
Heartsong. I played it,
and sang it in the morning
when the breeze brought
dew, and the mist was
bright, and the birds
sang too.

And I made you a
Poem. And your cheeks
were roses, suddenly blooming;
and trailing behind me
were ten thousand peddles,
each one representing a
thought of you.

There was a buzzing, woke me from my bed,
(in the place between my ears)
calling me to a place where I'm not alone.
Dreams are fantastic in lovers arms instead,
especially when you've been lonely on your own.

Faint, just a whisper, forgotten;
clumsily on the edge of infinity,
ready to drop into a pool of what's rotten,
you're lost in sweet serenity.

Blissfully alive.
                  But where is your buzzing?
                                                   Where is your soul?

Surely you would have noticed
the subtle silence of a mausoleum,
the clattered bones of yesterday
only scatter when ya see em.

And I'm too 'fraid to 'pollogize for my mistakes,
misdeeds and mistreating you.
I've seen the floor that you whip me with,
and its not worth meeting too.

So I've decided to surrender
                         to that sweet sweet serenity.

I've decided to surrender to that sweet serenity,
running on dreams, standing alone
on a crowded sea of enmity. (I just don't care anymore!)
Its time to sleep. its time to open this door and find myself home.

Trysts of beached
          and branchless relationships
               have led my mind to call the    
tides insecurity for truth,
        but this old jug of liquid fire is melting glass
                  so I think my craw needs a-wait f’r a-asking for.
       When I get the slur off my tong,
          the day will be done
And what happens tonight’s gonna kick my *** ‘til Tuesday.
                                              Goodbye worries;
                             I hope to see you in hell on Wednesday.    

                                  Let me sleep,
                                     or my dreams
                                         will explode  
                                             into reality.
                                                  Please.

We Lost,  
are children now—
though we aged quickly
to become loveless, depressed, and
sighing.

Lying
a moment next to you
incognizant, impressed, reminiscing,
forever Immature.

Simple, damp hair down,
resting on my face, loved;
true eyes emoting.

Calm cinnamon lips
kiss my heart, (beating inward)
my life, to die slow.  

Gentle
is the lover
who dies to spring more love
and kiss soft upon the shoulder.

I can't remember how I got here.
A striving to remember what I was
lead me to a song that I never heard.

Neck and my body strain,
its only when I'm dancing
that I feel like I'm alive.  

But I sit in this lazy boy all day instead.
arthritic hands typing and clicking on internet pages.
I have put myself on the doorstep of death.

But I can't complain about my sore ***.
Or the pain in my head. All I can do
Is remember that life is a cosmic drama dreamed

I am a messenger of the future, hidden truth, planetary organism.
Part of being a seer is knowing when you are going to exit.
I know that I am ready.

What deliberate words--contrived symbols--convey
this withering dissatisfaction, this love lost and unrequited?
That I am too good to be loved,
too beautiful to be tainted by your narcissism,
too innocent to be scarred by relationship?
My heart dreams of a daily death,
ribbons of rose red, seeping into a skyline I recognize as my own face,
and it's beautiful impression makes my heart too true to be known,
too real to be understood,
and too lovely to be shared and passed over.

The power of the almighty surges through contact with a chemically induced innocence
drinking **** and alcohol, one sage experiences a heightened level of unity consciousness.

Beyond all boundaries, internal and external, we reach for the stars.
Alternative paradigm, paradise distributed, consciousness applied.

So alien, it seems, to be a believer in the power of human will.
The balance of forces, a mastery of the terrestrial realm, not its capital,
but its land, environment. Econ, Eco, eco-nomy, marx missed.
George, progress and poverty, all the money you make will never buy back
your soul. Your kingdom, question the system, change your values!

Ecoculture, biodomes, organic farming, zero point energy.
Ecoculture, biodomes, organic farming, zero point energy.

Every stretch, every connection, closer to perfection.
Unfit for human consumption, sporadic.  Disss

Peace and prosperity to the world, live long and love well.
Acceptance and appreciation, Agape, education, economic democracy
cosmic consciousness!

A portrait of the pain:
   Endless time and sorrow in the soul
            Evoked. The arid vein
   Of blood that wanders wax and wane.
  
           Aimless feet and eyes
     Pursuing air, in breathless love,
          Seeing not of aching lies
     Of longing hearts that now reprise.

           As arrows, seeking not the mark,
            nor the pleasure or the pain
           instead the hour when we embark
    to discover love in vain.

I’ve got to **** her to prove I’m worth the time—
that she doesn’t need that other job
and that she wants to be with me.
I’ve got to **** her,
so she knows that I’m a man,
a person worth relationship;
that can please her any time,
and pleasures looking good.
I’ve got to **** her so she’ll stay with me,
and love no other men,
to keep her love as strong as now.
Love is always mad.

If in my life, my love I question—
And question I my love right now—
Then let the providence of my true thoughts reprove.  
It is the after-*** feelings of a man—different from a woman—
That makes our love so hard to find, to prove, prevail,
And express presently.

No commitment--we want no feelings felt--
But it is with the tides; our rational dissolves our masculinity,
And the words from lips that be love, itself a symbol,
And the coveted presence of such beauty too.
I lie; I lied for I love and I should ne’er reprove.

I'm done with worry; I'm done with pain.
All I want is a love that can sustain
my heart, my mind, my soul without complaint;
and bring emotions to blossom without constraint.

My river has become a flood
upon the surface of my heart, and within my blood,
so I have turned and changed my dream
to redirect this living stream

From finding love in a place outside
to discovering the truth that does reside
within the very heart that strives to love
so now I see, it was me I was dreaming of.

Money is a **** producer, who mascarades as a professional film producer, promising fame and fortune to young girls in LA.

Money exploits us all, telling us to cry on his **** as he forces it down each of our throats.

MMM

Money talks its valuable poetry, cha ching as we take the money shot, the money shot, the money shot...

Blaw! we take the money and run. Exploited, every one of us carries this inflated value; running around with our heads chopped off.
Where did we put our heads?
Not a one realizing how.
We put our heads collectively in the sand.

Money talks, but we dont. Money walks, but we wont. Money marches, but we cant stand. Can't form a coherent sentence while we're getting ******.

"If my dad finds out he will destroy me!"
"I won't tell."

Money wants us young, dumb, and full of idiom; and as the bubble bursts, we can't help but feel depressed.

Our faces are all over the internet. America the beautiful, I can hardly see your face behind the biggest, blackest ****.

If you want to turn anyone into your own personal *****, first you got to get the money!

Money is king. But is he kind? Money is our god, but what kind?

Money money money, MONEY!

The lyrics of every rap song on the top 100

Can we get some hoes and some money that we can throw's up in here!?

It's what we all want, and its what we all fear. Money controls us and rules us without a peer.

Money replaces trust, it replaces common decency, and puts a friendly mask on the face of a murdering monster.

Money makes me sick. It smells like burning flesh if you read it just right, and put your nose up real tight, it can start to burn you too.

Roll a hundo, give Ben a sniff. Money doesn't care if you sell it off to buy drugs or a train wreck. Money isn't ethical and neither are you.

Money wants us all to bow down, and when we rise up, we look like monopoly men.

Give me some money and I can change the world into a paradise on earth; give your local bank some money, and our world looks like a shopping mall.

Detached, our distant smiles seem for another,
for another dream that might insist upon one happiness,
joined in the winter by a fine fire of our hearts content;

Upon this earth, we are but slaves to love:
to give and to be received, to take and to be taken.
My heart yearns for the in between, and yet for the extreme...

To be eviscerated by the spinning flame and scattered by the wind,
to feel the torrents of a thousand wounds, and to taste blood and sulfur on my tongue
and yet still compelled to love, though selflessly compelled.  

Silent bonds to lap at the nectar of your heart
lull me deeper, deeper, into the altar of your mystery,
showing the distance between us; the cold and heat are but a dream
to be accepted, learned, and in learning lost.  

I have sung songs for you, on the triad steps you stand,
Perfect in the eyes of men, and in me a seraph, yet my impatience climbs those steps,
grasping at the subtlety of your stares.

For you I would stand alone, watching without a care,
wondering, and wandering the earth, lying with some woman, deaf to her heart
that beats like yours, and only yours

Simple condemnation breathes into my neck,
through my lungs, and from my breast
curled into the center, emanating vibrant
warmth of the hidden fire consolation from my face;

I know that you are the mystic heart,
sent to consent my transcendental start  
in life as in death, and in death as in pre-life
to discover the mystery of our mystery.

I would plunge into you and taste your waters.
I your pacific shores...

Sands conform,
waves wax and wane;

Be as the sunset burns,
behind rows of blackened ferns

Sway across the summer dunes
I see your eyes, they are sun and moon.

Why does it seem that the most beautiful things are the most fragile?
My glass heart must'ave been blown mere molecules thin
because as much as I thirst to be yolked from within
and find union with the soul of another just as agile

I am broken, shattered into pieces, every piece repaired in time.
And as selfish as all of this may seem,
there is nothing about me, I have committed no crime
in wishing that my life were held dear... a dream

I suppose I am asking too much from these droves
of human animals compelled to suffer and starve for meaning
Meanwhile I cry out of sanity for their suffering and mine, which proves
that there can be no sense in leaning:

Reliance on other leads to sorrow,
when I look to you, you see you, do you see me? I wonder
do you see me? I will be here tomorrow
to ask again and again, do you see me, or is that your blunder?

To the great brothers and great sisters of Her womb
To the great Mother and great Father, shifting through and through
Calling upon them for the great wisdom of our age
To bridge the gap between science and the sacred

This land has no boundaries, all conventions are made believe
and we are made to believe that politicians have our backs
while the preasts of a false language preach hypocracy to our faces
This is not our Shangrala, we have lost our grasp of Eden

Turning our garden into a guard, lost, we have turned a paradise
to a prison; old men casting aspersions of disrespect to a newborn,
blaming a victim of an obsolete tradition, casting salt onto the soil,
and calling it a blessing.

The prophets throughout the ages have seen a brighter world,
one that had, at its core, the truth; we are all one spirit, inhabiting these many forms.
This illusion of form and distance, made to be overcome, has illuded many, but not them;
They gave us the wisdom to escape the eternal womb of the mind,
and grow gracefully in the warmth of the Father Sun.

Trained to be beaten and broken, our new prophets have been beld and misled.
We call this machine, cold and calculating, Education; beaten and broken from the inside, our prophets are internally bleading: rose red ink on term papers with F wrote large!  

*******! The first words of resistance cries. I am my own authority,
I seek the truth, not your lies!
Tearing down the walls, and begining to tell a new story, we new prophets challenge "the way things are," because nothing is certain;
Our conscious evolution transcends to the stars, and starts in the grasses slowly showing their infinite patience and strangth, like a soft blade breaking the solid ground of traditions floor.

Be the evolution, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, be the change, and the change becomes you!

Agape and Appreciation

~M

Body of the shadow
slowly creeping out for dawn
to cover His light with ours gone

In the hours before dawn, they call us Leagion,
and we are many
cursed with the gift of eternity;
life dances above us, broken and alone.

We ear the sounds of lingering silence
drawn from the mouths of babes
sacraficed at the ashen altar;
to remind us: death comes for us all!

And it's all for you, my nightmare
Night Mare!  We ride the horizon of your iris,  
deep as the vacuum of space,
collecting this occular accuity
for a chance to inhabit our grace.

Riding in that car beside my father so,
Windows shut, a silent-glide,
The pond below
Was fingered up—and mirror glow--
And out, to the black-purple sky.

Hanging was an orange slice jewel  
Shimmering like an opened furnace
--A door to hell, but only creaked—
I even saw a daemon eye,
Scowling for my left and yonder sins.

I’d have plucked its cat’s-eye color from the sky,
But by god, I tried, and tried and failed.

The world is out of balance: koyaanisqatsi!  
Numinous, my heart's nemophilist alerted to the danger,
yet presently in rasasavada,  espies the solstace moon and cries
in acatalepsy:  Mamihlapinatapai with the hunter within...
Should I embrace this smultronställe,
cought in the ostranenie of meliorism,
or drift from this vorfrued to sophresyne;

My only desire is the nurishing erlebnisse of metanoia,
of my dérive towards sehnsucht:
of rasasavada, that I may insulate myself from the Weltanschauung
of modern society, hiraeth to a nefelibata.

When I feel my hand
And the sensations feel
My world is real
Strange reality, love reality

Mother reality
This is the source of my fantasies.

To be, to this immense sensation
Knowledge
         and time and life’s
Uniqueness, displayed in every moment.

Daily, this is but one day.

The words I have not to say.
The world I have not to understand.
Moment to moment, stranger by the day.

How unique? How unique.
This unique! This. Uniqueness,
Displayed so believably.
But death is the truth, inconceivably.

That, is belief through ignorance.

We do not die. We do not live.
We love, we are nothing. Death in life.
Suspended in the air. Subjectively…

I am not my self,
And nothing is as it is.
Everything is nameless, blameless.
Truth is perceived thoughtlessly;
I ignore them.

There, in truth, is no language to make simple
the complex.
Reality is truth.
Experience is now.
  Everything is now.

Beauty is a symptom of rarity.
Everything is relatively rare.
Everything is relative.
Time, now, exists as a singularity.
Love, now, is life.
  
“I’m sorry.”

Nothing is incomprehensible.
Everything is incomprehensible.
I am incomprehensible.
You are incomprehensible.
Love is accepting anyway. Love is life.  

“I love everyone.”

But you do not understand me.
You are more understandable to you.
Make me more like you, your Desires!
You love falsely.
I’m sorry. I love everyone.