it moves rapidly
each world is contained within
gliding through times stance
preparing to birth, yes, yet again…

yet if you die
with your visions in your head
you commit to death your world.
your last breath, your last chance
to expel your perspective.


poets do it best, maybe.

bodies and planets do the dance,
they interlock at the birth, and express
the signs of things,
holding hands, until the death.
the vessel destined for the dirt.
the soul joins the rest.

those flashes, those deep seeded facts,
the ones you know without knowing,
in fact, those are your truth.
the ones needed to be spoke,
sung or sculpted. however you feel good.

fears keep us from doing this,
plus we forget who WE really is,
the connecting fabric of the witness,
WE. the basis for creation,
each perspectives experience
is necessarily different.
time space needs peripheral vision.


to die with your world trapped inside, man...
maybe
if I look close enough in your eyes…
I can capture the light.