We are not alone and separate in our thoughts, walking with death on our shoulders. He smiles and you smile back. But, you say; he is terror, trying to flee. No, he is a brother, bring him to me.
Minds bent on survival, we're running from the beasts, hell on earth, not in fear but disgust. Art, beauty, rapture, the sweet oblivion our true calling. Improvisation is how to play it. Fluid. Pick the tempo, leave the key for others.
Feeling deeply the dark unnameable perversion in a world of no sense to any but the truly sociopathic, change is the only constant. I just don't like agendas that have me or you classified as cannon fodder as the plan of the day. Some hang on to the status quo 'til their fingernails rip,no matter the reality. Bad idea and painful.
Looking through a different lens gets a different perspective in the artful curve of the sacred, like a bird swooping in for a landing. There before us is the road. How does one walk this road that has no signpost. One step at a time, she said, you are not really blind just unlit. These things turn many away, but even in their turning they walk the road. We all walk, with mindfulness or without, it makes no difference.
Opening the shell
The knife of our mind
Gives birth to