I wasn't lying when I said you took my breath away.

It was beautiful till I turned blue,

but guess what! (i'll tell you)

I found it today.

It wasn't hiding, it had just gotten smaller.

It shied away from my hand when I reached for it

in the haste held by a man who realizes

he's dying every day.

Like the last tree in a mechanical day dream

it coughed at the presence of the past.

You, the very one who shooed it away from my form,

you whos heart beat was too loud to lift up

anything but my ecstasy,

told me to be patient.

You helped me find my breath again.

Magic is the unseen.
Magic is Schrodinger's cat.
(or us from the point of view of the cat.)
Magic is the tree in the forest
felled out of earshot.
Magic is the face that everyone makes
when you're not looking.
Magic is peripheral evolution;
the way water boils faster
under the patience of a turned back.
Magic is where the colors go when the sun goes down.
If science is observation,
and art is application,
than magic is both neither and both,
and neither both nor neither.
Magic is the "I don't know."
when someone asks who you are
and all you can think of is your name.
In this way, magic is in everything,
and in some way
we are pieces of everything.
Don't remember to forget,
and next time someone inquires to your identity,
know that any answer you can give is correct
because you can give it.

Or not.

alright,
so one day you wake up in the middle of the night,
not for a sound or a light,
but the fright of "not right".

You move your awake to the living room
and hold on to it tight.

With eyes withered wide
you see without sight
in the sun-tipped hours
of empty delight.

"It's not right" says you
to the you you're speaking to
and you're convinced through and through
that the voice is not new.

The sun coming up,
the filling of cups,
tells withered eyes,
to look to the skies,
and in the demise,
on the night's last light,
the day is crowned queen,
by the sun and your sight,
and you sigh away why,
and the fright of "not right"
in the day that you woke in the middle of the night.

Somewhere the sun is rising,
and it's beautiful.
Light let loose
bringing a landscape alive,
uncovering the cradled colors that slept through the night.
A gift of gems.  

You are there
trading breaths with the morning.
The tears on you cheek sing radiant
in the rising fire,
and they lift your chin.

With wet eyes open
you find a world awaiting in a blooming flower,
and with each breath,
still stirring the air,
you fulfill it.

Somewhere the sun is rising
and it's beautiful.

Satori is beyond words,
yet any words with which one may use to describe it are correct;

explain this.

Though I cannot recall exact scenes,
I know oft are you subject of my dreams,
and through my sweet sleep I have seen,
it's not the ends that justify, but the means.

The pyres in our eyes
are the sparks that light the other's.
Like paralleled mirrors
we are infinite.

An Old Master once said,
"Those who know do not speak,
those who speak do not know."
but in creating the duality of
speaking and not speaking
He has ignored the Silence the unites them.

In both speaking and not speaking
resides silence,
from which they both spring.
To be silent is to listen,
but speaking does not negate other sounds.
To be at peace with the silence in
and without yourself
is to understand.

This is the Tao we call wisdom.

But, by defining knowing and not knowing,
one may never understand.

The Old Master was right in that
those who speak cloud the moon
with their pointing fingers,
but failed to recognize that
beyond the clouds,
the moon is still shining.

The light that illuminates the moon
is the same that is cast upon the finger.

Within this light sits darkness in meditation.
Under ones words sigh silence.

This is the Tao we call Void.

Through this Void, the ten-thousand are about themselves,
Stark within their inconsistencies.
I found peace in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found peace in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found anger in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found sorrow in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found joy in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.

This is the Tao we call emotion.