From where did I come from? From whence did I arrive. Was I 3, 4, 5, or 6 when my eyes could see things weren't alright. Did the earth put me here to brings peace? Does the bird think about its past nest. Will the sea rise. The sun explode. And to where do I put my parents to rest? Will I regale my children with tales of valor? Will I curse their existence. Do I deserve to be alive right now?
The bird does not let its past nest hold it down. The sea will find a home somewhere else. And I will be, just here. Breathing deeply, to make sure I'm still alive.
the dove labored by his own beak; the last breathed breath
lungs are filled with the salt of the sea **** to the shackled, the non-free do you care, or is it a play to see what you can get breathe in what's left of the clean we polluted divinity diluted of air cleared, not yet
I abandoned what is called meditation. It turned up a dial that was already too high. One can be too self-aware, too contemplative, too analytical, too observant. Igniting the central nervous system driving it off a cliff. Now I stare at the ocean, walk the whitewater, gaze at the stars, listen to the birds. That is pure meditation.
Birds of a feather flock together in the sultry atmosphere, whirring in and out of crepuscular clouds as if it were nothing special. feathers more like needles blacked under the godless face of the wind. The cliff's voice clings to their sun-smeared backs, reminds them of his own position on an empty, red planet and they sing back that gravity lament. The sky goes on about the lovely morning air and sunlight marches when all birds want is a place to lie down from that brittle flight, to rest their hollow bones filled with a lost longing.
I wonder what it would be like for birds under a red sun.