What a time capsules mission was,
was ours as well, as our lives,
measured going in,
mind state measured going out, measured coming back,
once we opened your will to wonder what we say the mission is, was it…
measured growing old, mentally augmented since the laying on of hands.
Some body believed, they burned all the crutches and wheel chairs,
we all heard the stories of those strangers healed and walked away,
by and by, we grow a knowing kind of religious net, we import miracles,
we make words come to self fulfilling prophetical perfect sense, until,
the incompetence of a particular kind of literalist, literature as real lessons,
learned on levels deeper than the silver screen can command,
as one reads Psalm 15 and the parable of the talents with the same angel.
hide, and watch, words,
live in tiny bubbles, times and seasons take scale,
powers of ten,
and then again a billion times a second
in four billion breaths in
and four billion breaths out, all in cadence, mortal coil chorus of average.
We the people, current idiom,
we the earthling sapient word and number users;
Brainstorms tickle our will to undermine liars, calling life impossible
to enjoy as much as many nobodies do.
Or did before my grave was opened.
An empty bottle, a sense of sublime timing tapping sources below my pre heart attack series of flat lines, I heard about, later, and sort of remember, most mornings, it is a good jump start on doing something enjoyable as breathing.