The overbroad forest for the all-important tree,
The soil for the sand, in endless bands
To purify our sight
To the sublime, the immortal,
A gradient of the blue sky,
Abstracted by subtraction
Of what feels not at home
In the light within which your eyes travail.
We call it Truth,
What has already been reduced --
The whole is just not possible
For the bites of philosophes
To savor
Without what is not it
Becomes it
In a role the players play
Not hardly aware of the meaning even now.
It's getting unwritten, the past
Where conclusions seemed to count.
The awakened ones no longer need
An external prompt
To learn what's not within them.
They know who they are
In the voiding of the waves
That appear more frequently these days,
And each turn of new swell,
Each pull back of breath
Giggles out the illusion that it is
Despite what you've become in its wake,
A fraction of its promise,
Never to be realized,
Never even real
But a proposition from yourself
That saw nothing but made something
We call insight, the gift of the blind,
The ability to discern without the artificial ideation,
The eyes' deceptions, the mind leading the blind
Who could see all along
But never bothered telling
The amygdala, who lives like Hephestus in darkness
Charging gold light from his forge
For future terrifying stories,
Of Gods who eat their young,
Men who ride their women,
Insects that devour all the green.
Let the light begin with that,
The dark match of the impossible bad
Happening over and over again
While you watch with a revelatory flame.
