This will end with its beginning. When nothing never was, nor ever will be again. When metamorphosis' of worms to float like blooms of fairy flutter, or pillars of sequoias scraping sky can burn away to char, then from cold thin air or winter lungs of clouds can cry fractal flowers. Nothing comes from nothing, therefore there is always something more, even when our human sight is veiled, preconditioned by what we fear before we learned.
When will we look with not just seeing, peering with more of what is feeling, evolving to feel the pain of leaf and leaving? Cry with our world as it is grieving, heaving with the smog while all else is eaten; when will we realize that this is alive, the blue of all eyes are the same as the ceiling, browns of the soil enriched for seedling, and the blood of the world is not liquid nor spilling. It is the circumference of a heart, a floating castle, and the joy and the lively creates the splendor. The karmic rivers in our considerateness, lifting up to heaven as our worthy witness. See this here, of what we've made? Rather than say, oh well that's life, **** happens and so it is, say, say, say...
A gift for a gift is given because we cherish whom we are with, when did we forget to celebrate the life that has been given : the basic breath we gulp, and quenching of every thirst, whether deep as poetry, or dry as elephants in desert lakes--we have water falls with queens in their names (yet people are starving and dying, mind you not that far away).
We are able and have enough, stockpiled for winters whether nuclear or Eskimo, yet nothing seems to still be nothing, but then there's peppermint ice cream pies. Starvation in Africa, but dead children do not cry, nor do they--too weak without the food or energy... but then again there's Little Debbie's fudge cookies and marshmallow pies...
And we all praise Ala and Thank the Lord our souls, our being spared of our sufferings, (pipe bombs to and fro) all the while admonishing and bigotry, hatreds and slavery / are given a different face, a dress of expensive tastes. Our only skills are selling wares that is our one time youthful flesh. Because just because we are desperate to have - something more, not having any less than a meal, a roof on four walls, the door.
In god's name we pray... we always see and say and sing and wait... yet nothing is still nothing, impossible I might add, since we are not without we should just all shut our mouths and do something more...
Because if this ends, we are the only ones - all of us - to blame. Not gods, alcohol, or the rain.
What there is to be seen now are dead oceans and forests in flames. Fire and more fire, some in forms of steel, and blades of atrocious acts, and influence of them our holies - accosting us with lies - crapping on our whiles, feeling unworthy because of this chapter / verse, because they're better than that and we are worse. All beneath our noses, defiling our future hopes, in the eyes of our own beloved - turned into wingless birds.
How my love to look upon the whole of the face of the world--becomes desperate pleading for mine vision to be done. When the sights are blindingly painful, numbingly remiss of the hopeful wonder when I was young and a telescope looking up saying this :
"One day I will visit that planet, go flying through the stars... When I'm old enough to be there, where the future are..."
Nothing seems to still be nothing, and never was or could. What is a nothing, when he thought that it was something, to live and just be good?
I'm still here waiting for the beginning, if this is how it ends... a ghost of a poet, with this heart ache and pen...
(Oh Goddess my Goddess...! When...?)