Under a Wesak Moon

 
 
 
 
…here we plug along.  Sense is a human
construct. 
Silent knowledge that can’t
be quantified, measured.  It is more subjective,
contextual, subtle,
ethereal. 
Yet vital. 
Such instinct, lore, ought
not be lost, drowned in prideful ownership,
nor discounted for quick profit on the popular market.
 
Traveling through water.
Unraveling.
Rebelling.
Revel in loud telling
fancy tales for a shilling.
Skillfully fade; still outside of jail.
Intimate with rambling river —
advised never expect a binding code.
Love ‘em or hate ‘em
we club ‘em and mate
‘cause it’s all we know.
Tomorrow is only a threat.
Tonite is the moment we met.
To live by chance of regret could do us wrong.
Listen to me.  I’m a song.
 
Why invoke Love, so imprecise an instrument,
when desire craves divine-like acceptance,
adoration of sparks within us,
all that can inflame
madness, empathy, a symphony, a cure for anything.
Love can become rational answer if the world of we
define it as sanity. 
Health, enlightened cooperation, love’s inspiration
to keep us all at the top of our form.
Love fresco of swooping angels,
vowed to fly us to our highest goal.
Bliss,
aspiration enriched.
Taste bittersweet long accumulated heritage.
That metallic tang of blood, carbon bonds descended
through rock, dust,
skeletons deconstructed to reclaim from waste.
Black swans, dragons, screeching birds surge through flame,
ever re-emerging,
carry potential energy into consecrated deserts.
Sleep well in comfort of serene will. 
Tomorrow
we learn to bloom.
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