The practice,
the accepted right, good enough,
as with practice one's fingers learn,
each note, each tempo, each stain
eradicated, recollected and confessed,
irrational as time running the other way,
life, the experience, surviving any way,
eventually, we rest, or die while fretting why.
Commune with the chorus calling our attention,
as we, this pair, this form mankind can take,
readily, from the source, in truth a child knows,
if given half a chance,
if one causal agent takes patience to perfect
the unwanted child,
to fill the will
to become
the utmost valuable kind
of thing that ever is
contained in minds of our kinds,
a vessle to hold golden oil used for light.
Yes, light hearted frolicking's toddler's joys,
recalled from memory, as if ever with us,
this strength willing to make of us, this
mind involved in finishing the refurbishing,
so the sword of truth glistens rust free,
as the finest whetstone hones this edge,
minding our manner of thinking we know,
if
then
this that we aspired to, inspired by you, is
the entire you, foil plural mind to my weform,
after time
is no more, eternity now
happens as happens
to seem to be, then is,
enough to think about a while.
I an in the same mindset as Saul Bellows, though he is dead, I am in agreement yet, as it remains true, there is too much to think about, all at once.
