It seems the strangest things walk the underside of leaves,
Sneaking in the garden,
As invisible birds cry in the trees,
With the day’s first adventures of silent buzzing bees.
Today we’ve woke with scratches upon our face.
Self inflicted, conflicting we
Remember to assemble who and what we are
As the astringent stings
Upon the wounds of revelry.
From the depths of withdraw,
Drawing near,
Drawing tight,
The loose noose of redemptive damnation.
The mind is slippery
From nights too hot to sleep,
And fingers shaking into blur
Before the eyes of a dream.
Finders are the seekers of meme.
(remembering)
If the center cannot hold,
The spokes are the last to know.
(forgetting)
September waits for the harvest,
And the second Fall,
For the unearthly Glow,
And Noah’s flow.
Morning in the journey to maturity.
Over coffee,
Over a burned tongue,
The smoke from our hand curls,
Warm before the blinded storm.
“Fractious” comes to mind,
From the backlog of images
The brain didn’t have time to manifest before alarm.
A miasma of recall, realization, review
Pours forth from eye upon the world’s image.
Seers are the finders of reality.
Fractal, fracture, fraction, faction.
Breaking cycles of pieces repeated in action
With variation sufficient
For patterns of self,
Bootstrapping the spiral of conscious complexity.
The day proceeds with small changes,
Half smiles,
Hidden giggles and glee,
Lost looks and glances nameless.
While on the horizon
Over our shoulder,
The beckoning finger of a firestorm
Awaits the end.
It waits for us,
For the sacrifice,
For the terrible tryst of unmaking.
And at last,
Madness will know more of us,
Than ever did you or I.
