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 essence  
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"