What do we tie to?
Do we need an ally?
Is perception, and thought,
not direction enough;
Do we need others to create a front?
And if so, what by force,
is ever gained?
to rail, assail, demand, and deny Life any change?
What is the fear?,
the underpinning unclear,
that devout is not to devour, or defend.
For to defend is to skirt a wrong;
and only begets a plea of guilt;
an insistence there is no end.
But nothing ever ends in spar,
only continuation of things ajar;
and no one teaches the benign of Place inside.
Where every soul has a path,
a purpose from first to last,
and that life does, indeed, have demise.
The constant clamoring,
and clawing at Life
is tearing it's fragile fabric apart.
The separations are glaring,
but who is staring at anyone who wants to finish
what any Other starts.?
It's a stalemate,
To separate, conflict, and confuse.
The ether is so crammed with microwaves
that you can align, and/or disagree
by simple pick - and - choose.
It's an electrical moment,
with chemtrails and experiments,
as mankind feels its edge.
Empowerment takes nothing more than a sentence,
and sent out before bed.
Ahh, the world is mine,
and I feel fine.
I guess I told them so!
But who knows who received the message?
or even imagined the opposite,
for the other side to unfold?
Graphic: Visage de Olga,
by Francis Picabia (1879-1953)