So frivolous that this exists within a Lack of being, The ebb and flow of Death influx, The cause of void in pulse, but, Nonetheless, Life hosts in essence, in absence, In ephemeral disguises compiling like Waves in the ocean, Like pomegranate seeds in hands, Like the letter C in the mind, [A comedy]
.Perpetual.
And yet we are, And yet I am, And yet you is, [A complex] The "primordial" surrogate of truth: The sun in a raisin, Shriveled and compacted because The grape was in the son of Woman and man [A tragedy]
But still, with her eyes on horizons, The blue woman remains in essenceΒ Β While the red man remains in absence: Lack of sunrises Lack of sunsets Lack of quiet nights But the ebb and flow as parables as memoirs Appease the quiet war between the Quiet soul's erosion and the Ancestral swig of heresy, tonics that Drip sporadic hesitation, An emotion [A concoction]
.Purple.
This is my body
Information becomes info
This is my blood
Influence the chaos
With ripened moons and fluorescent suns The poetry as Mother Tongue As Mother Nature As existence As a lack of dark meaning [A feeling]
["Give them what they lacked"]
The songs of ecclesiastics Everything is meaningless Until
My hands My hands My hands
Are Reincarnated within the Auroras of Autumn, Within the auras of Winter, Within Within The Ebb and Flow of Death bearing the new.
[A time][A place] Father's Time Father's End As anecdotes As joyful mysteries . Suppose the mirror reflects it all As found and "uncharred"