I.

Many a mind’s I:
Where do the clouds go,
and why does the sun rise?

Who has pricked their finger
on the spindle,
spinning their yarns
about the purpose of their days?

All within the confines of mind
punishing prisoners,
in dreams dreaming animals
who appear as infinity or love
comically confined.

What purpose is my life?
Why did he die from me?
Why did she not love me?
Why do the birds not care?

While I am the one who travels
on the path so few have trodden.
(for who would want to?).
I oh I, the thing they told me
was my trophy and my sign,
my zodiac and my destiny
where the sun
and the stars
care for Me,
and all life matters.


II.

All is folly,
and ignorance,
when the hand is ready to punch,
and you are wondering
about the birthdays
in regret or anticipation:
take your pick.

The question and the answer are games,
to see who can find the Silence first,
where death and life fall,
and life rolls like water rolls,
over rocks and fish,
sweet lilies who open
to the rosy fingers of the summer,
and fall into deep slumber
as air becomes cold
and numb
and dark.

One could not love anything unlike this,
But one must also have the stomach
to digest it all,
the minute workings of your heart,
hidden inside an electric body
inside an electric ocean
of every feeling in the universe,
every tear
every drop of blood
that’s been shed for want of love.

Many will go on vacation,
because they can’t stand
to be alone,
to be witness of what surrounds the trees,
and the connection of your heart,
angelic radio,
picking up more information
than Google can ever dish out,
and yet you all leave, abandon yourselves,
in phones, in pictures,
yoga and Bali resorts.
run away run away run away.

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