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Sara Brummer Sep 3
The world is made of mystery
as wild as the dunes
where secret spirits gather
and grasses whisper psalms.
My guesses cannot run as fast
nor can ideas fly
to catch all that amazement
floating upwards toward the sky.

This universe enormous,
its distances unknown.
Its stars and moons and planets
live in their spacious home,
but all that can belong to us
is life and death alone.
Same meter as Emily Dickinson used, that is tetrameter followed by trimeter
Everyone's been talking about how
the universe will either expand
indefinite cold star death
or collapse and then repeat itself

meanwhile i'm a slave proper
in every sense of the word physical
bound to the elements hunger
a criminal for speaking my thoughts aloud

a loud or a soft noise unheard
unseen and unknown and unthinkable
still I would try to define it
humanity, always effing the ineffable

i'm one and apart and the same all the same
the universe cloaked in name after name
every man and woman a star
in their own drama melodrama how dramatic

i am in a word addict
again you might say i'm back at it
rhyming with rhythm but static
sense or nonsense and i've had it
i was born
to a mother who always is
trying to destroy me

my father
long before
i was born
i can never seem to find
where he's at

i'm so dry
such a dry, dry drunk
white knuckle sober
Written ca. 2012
even now has come to an end
the world that once was then
the nights were young
full of natural electricity

you may find yourself
standing in a place so unfamiliar
yet so full of such bewildering
to something you knew before

you may just be watching
the wind as it plays
in ripples on the surface of the water
which passes under your feet
standing on a bridge
Written ca. 2012
couple on a motor
cycle with a death wish
drum drops
still pond
early morning
coolness broken

pull that poison, pull it deeply
deeply, deeply
pull it deeply
keep that breath, like memory bitter
sweetly taste that lungs can know

a good will, strong, and a one hundred
these are made alone
for breaking
benjamin Wishing, Well behind
our time,
our pennies
are made
for throwing
In the dawn of days, dwells the awe of reverence.
In the thought of dwellers, can the awe be thread.

Within the small things, herein lies the pieces.
The pieces that make-up the direction of things that exist.

For the boulders at a mountain's mighty face, are no more important than the stones that form the base.
For it is in the reverence that we craft love from awe.

Blessed are those who sit and watch, for they are the architects of reverence - the constructors of awe.
Inspired from my pondering of the importance of reverence.
I’m still choking on my own blood.

As it slowly fills my lungs.

I am drowning inside myself

The blood is mine; 
the air is gone,

Now so am I.

After death, there’s nothing more than that same familiar empty space 

waiting for your thoughts to refill it

Infinite & Eternal 
in every direction;
both up and down and beyond before.

encircled by the horizon.

This emptiness where your awareness doesn’t so much ‘go’ 
as recollect that it’s always been here.

look through this persisting dream! 

there is no afterlife because nothing, 

not even memory, is really destroyed.

just transformed 
into particles

into wavicles 

into higher frequencies,

your mind no longer fathoms,
so you leave 
your mind behind.





your awareness is the fifth state of matter.
There’s a comforting concept of metempsychosis
The spirit moves on while the flesh decomposes
But the birth rate’s exceeded
So new souls are needed
And this is the number one problem it poses
There’s more than one method to meet the divine
The road to salvation is not a straight line
Skeptics, recall
Worship no god at all
While the foolish insist that there’s no god but mine
Latch on to life if your ardor is able
Every last option remains on the table
The one became real
With the turn of a wheel
And someday will come when the truth becomes fable
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