I wonder how all our worlds look from the inside.
“Where do old birds go to die?
Why don’t dead ones fall 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!

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.