Living Theatre

Another day in the box waiting for nightfall. 
That is when caged siren sings, mournfully, hauntingly. 
This is where our stage play starts. 
Take the ride your tethered mind could never allow.
We have met the enemy, for they are us, just one shadow away.
Human newborn imbued with alien soul. 
Where the human soul is taken, if it survives, who knows?
She screams for her child.  Deeply under sedation,
it is but hallucination.  No one hears her.  None understand
why she insists this child is not hers.
After months of constant reinforcement, she accepts.
This child is her own.  The child, not so clearly
subject to social norms, cannot accept this mam,
or for that matter, this sham society, as its rightful place.
Pitched sweep of surreal pageantry,
fantastic yet detailed with lucidity,
captured from halls of enchanted lamps
begging to enlighten.
Today is about
pure bright reds
Fruit of Eden
to carry in sultry saddlebags
for sustenance in high desert.
Ride the current.
Breathe the moment.
Embody radiant energies
streaming live.
Impeccable action is full and complete defense.
To embrace vast edgeless awareness.
To love exuberant outrageous self
is reward and salvation.
That small flickering insistence
finds smolder of resource within
to make another plan
when broken path
has been obscured
or destroyed.
Children desiccated,
forgotten flowers on
fields of war.
Where does loathing fear originate?
Why do we insist on a myth of childhood bliss
when growth grapples intertwined in plight?
Drive to acclimate: 
decide whose got the might that makes them right,
how to win favorable gaze — who to hail;
who to hate.
Grief, anxiety, any emotional signal prized as such.
Instead of fight or flee, impulse to ask emergent feeling:
what have you come to advise?
Often telling stories rise distilled from ambient well of
Journeying around the realm of bliss does not deny experience
from other sources.  It helps to clarify lines, strings, coloration
outside of fraudulent choice to kill or be killed.

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