My mind a changing room, revolving ideas of beauty and mistake
Or perhaps a camera with too much to capture
Shuttering to think of life as a liquid
For as long as one can recall it’s been a real gas
But the influences are many, they are vexing
Meddlesome technology and Infernal desires
From beneath the compounding cacophony
of a pretense most alleviating and comforting
Cries a little voice heard only by angels
Pitched by a man trying to find his mother,
whose healing hands built the basements
beneath the Great Ziggurat, left to be found later,
indeterminate and perplexing during survey
but in truth was never really known.
A collection of grainy photos connected by string
on a wall in a quiet corner of a lonely home
seeking to make sense
of what was sorted out by Siddhartha some time ago
in the jungle beside himself, within the veil
of casual decay and serious growth.