was this here when I was born?
- is this the earth of 1948?
No, I don't think so, this is the realm of words
as thought in times of enfolding
olden forms to find the lies
they passed on as fair
to hold sacred, hidden in depths, radical
depths of debt due to double-minded
upright bi-pedal instability
balance, yeah, surf, as a porpoise,
ride the wave as a photon in a medium
divine grace or some other unreasonable
idea - as a passenger here we be
come and see I am this photon,
for it is far too small for me
to stand up on and see,
so I am this bit of light, the same bit
involved in Einstein's little think, so long ago,
speed of thought,
you caught up.
I don't know, but I've been told,
these winds of mere light
return to pick up points
passengers intending to convert,
to bubblers of *******' and moanin' 'bout
balance in life, slinking in the shadow,
of the inpenetralium,
mercurial bubble of ancient Phrygian
ways to obligate a fringe
into an intentional point of contact
for any who know the feeling,
virtue flowed from me,
who touched me?
Gnat straining, am I? Have you never been
the fly on a wall you imagined?
Have you, honestly, never seen the earth
from the moon?
Now, ask any truth you wish were proven,
"what lie is held as you, in me?
What lies are needed for truth to be known,
and the knowers made free? Truth tell,
do I know, or say I know, to pass the tests,
to be allowed to live alone and far away,
thinking why do men, wombed and un, lie?
- Liars prosper.
- Reality holds the story true, so
- the first twisted gift of knowing was
- the trick.
- Beguilement, surprise, peek-a-boo
weknow weknow weknow
each says, knowing we know, I am one of us,
alone aware you're there,
in the same story, from the same time,
measured in celestial predictate-ability,
to say where that star shall rise,
think what that knowing does.
Then to now in this bit of thought,
perhaps a pixel of truth.
Free, what's it worth.
Take a little think.
Nothing left to do, is freedom from what... exactly, don't lie... I say to my ******* muse.