What is the meaning of these words that taste the morning with poems, drifting… constellations unwind themselves into starlight pouring through her, as she is starlight pouringĪnd she no longer could pinpoint the stars that swirled inside or outside the galaxy that spun her No one wonders why or how as these fingers slide across the keys, stories of stories bloom, and one perfect leaf that still hangs on the tree of roses flutters in the canyon breeze… There is no question of real or unreal, thought seems to form its own anchor, yet no one is lost or found as the swirling has no sides, no center, no one can land there is no harbor or safety, no net of words can capture you or let you go, as you are this net, this constellation of thought, no separate thoughts or stars can be found, yet they seem to form patternless patterns that tell a story of galaxies…
There is no space to hold them, no screen upon which they appear, no one is dreaming, …simply this streaming pulsing murmuration of thought, that cannot grasp itself… You have always been alone, there is no time, nor you… the scenery seems to change, to flow, as well as thought, but that is a thought, there is only what seems to appear, a magical illusion without substance, a mirage where you are no more real than these words sliding through the thought stream as love sweeps through memory and paints liquid wings of innocent wonder in our eyes, feathers of mourning softly falling onto the frozen groundĪnd morning splashes our faces from underneath the horizon, and we are spun anew into the day dream, adrift in acres of endless skies pouring through cloud scapes, worlds forming and dissolving, intricately infinite in detail and yet without measurement or dimension, or time or space, …people I seem to know greet me and we seem to dream together, in this song where words fall apart into meaningless symbols, letters dance and fade, and melodies are memories of notes cascading through our mouths, …my heart has exploded, my face is your face, there is no one behind the mirror or inside these reflections, the mirror is illusion, illusion is illusion, no echo has a source, and it is all echoes… No one knows what wetness is, or what it feels like to another, that there is a thing called water or wet or another is a sumptuous thought dream, liquid skies streaming, thought pouring through its own liquidity, the word wind dissolving into not even nothing, as nothing is a word…Įverything that seems to appear is as real as the imaginary perceiverĪ chorus of echoes sky writing across the universe of dreams
#ONE PIECE WORLD SEEKER WARM COCOON SKIN#
We are winged transparent membranes of thought in between the breath and the song, oscillating visions of wonderment, of liquid eyes and lips, the feeling of wetness on your fingers, sliding through the skin into the blood the heart, the emptiness inside, the emptiness outside, the summersault of love on the ocean grasses…
Ocean songs are not wet, yet they drench us with waves and stillness, soaring through underwater skies… I am shadows dancing in caverns of light, rivulets of memory pouring through the shimmering that dances between sea and sky and nothing at all…
Doves rush up from the frozen garden, streaming rays of shadows soar across the grey cat, silent in the morning sun
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