I wonder how all our worlds look from the inside.
“Where do old birds go to die?
Why don’t dead ones fall on us like stones from the sky?”

I’m quite amazed as I sit by the riverside
just beyond that mossy gilded gate lying
on a naked shoulder by the water
marching Memory
before my unfitting seawater eyes.

I can’t near describe the image
as reflected rhetorically, in ripples of perfection,
submerging- they splash all over me!

Holy submergent non-entity. (repeats x4)

Made visible I’m broken down to efflorescent light beams
my being shrunk to nothing, effortlessly-
consumed, Subsumed by Anokhi spirits I am obligated
to split my mind apart,
sense the choices in between thought and action,
acting powers like those still existing
behind that scripted set of scenes.

It’s probably impossible once you’ve been exposed
to just let go and allow the things you now know
to return, we must unlearn and remember ‘dragon lines’
and constellations
might be more than fitted disorder in the sky
or fabricated by the Mind,
or as Dreamt up by Morpheus
who was eager for a trap
to capture blissful rapture of the ancient onces.

An artifice- curious to be. Bemused by itself.

And what if all you’ve ever known, you didn’t?
And the whole world that you’ve felt couldn’t be any less unreal. Cause in this moment now,
I’m quite positive I never had existed.