can you be.
It's a paradox,
It's a paradox,
like the way
The wish to unify
with the one
Turns you into something
Separate.
There is a me
On a beach far from the Nile
Who builds pyramids in the sand
As a kind of third-eye location scout,
and whose craven descent
Into acquiescence has turned him to
a graven image for others
In the harvest of late afternoon ...
And there is a not me
Who speaks of Pele and Brigid
And the lotus plant that blossoms as fire
to rise with the Nile
For the royal Sirian lions of sovereignty,
And who paints the scene so thoroughly
The others come like children from his brain,
not even questioning.
The one screams, because there are no words,
The other repeats, because there's only words
Until what is created and heard, heard and created
circles in an infinite loop:
As one feels wounds, the other is wounded.
The centrifuge invariably returns
To anode void
or cathode stone.
So the hierophant in the inner chamber
Lets the reed flute blow every note
the higher light sent to hear,
But the hearers find it disappears
In the echoes they create of it
As it weaves around each memory they have,
And the melodies reduce to patterns,
the rhythms arguments,
Until the lion finally grabs the flute and plays
Like no one's ever blown on it it before,
free of time and space,
Completely unpredictable, to get them to the place
Where their galactic families can appear.
Another manner of mirror.
Is there something more to see than what we
know we are?
