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Screaming through the quagmire of being, I seenay, feeljustification of the heat of singularity of thought. Yearning of (and for) all energies spinningnot only in the dance of Shiva, but in the fulfillment of a manifest destiny of understanding and love that gives forth its eternal fires of hope and the many tomorrows that can & will exist in the immutable paradigms of reception and order, thus bringing together the complete schism of an entity of pre- and/or post-existence on the plains of destiny thereof. Enabling the existence of the mere act of existing itself, to be put into a comprehensive matrix of its own particles of energy that pour forth the composition of thought and tranquility in this highly charged energetic swirl of being.
Largo. "Read slow and meaningful."
A calm engulfs mea feeling of completeness and belonging touches deep into my aching heart, that has so long gone unnourisheduncared for, un-understood...so, so alone. I sense her presence next to me: does she comprehend the completeness of the meaning of our flight, high and above the valleys of deceit and envy? We soared high and through the white clouds of joyjoy, yes joyno sadness, no sadness, hand in hand, mind in mind, our fledgling flight of knowledge and self-discovery beginning to diminish as we glide slowly and tranquilly to the plane of existence from whence we emerged. We will now part. Each of us going our separate ways to an unknown destiny that weall of usmust travel to, as the force of all that mobilizes dictates that we must ultimately gravitate. I cry out in silence to my beloved, I SSSCRREEEMMM to her nono, NOas she walks to the crest of the hill into the setting sun. She tops the rise and, in starting down the other side grows less and less and le ... and is forever gone, and once again, Iam alone ... so very alone...
Moderato! Laid back, read with a beat!
Standing at the rail of a vortex of being, I cannot help but to be drawn inward to the many, many factors of the serendipity of thought and action that dwell within that frame of reference that I make a judgmental observation to the comprehension to those entities that dwell in the dungeons of my very being. Canst thou not also feel the presence of a Homeric poem from the very air that we breathe? An indisputable feeling of total and complete remorse makes itself known to my awareness of the truths and lies that nourish my soul, from the outer regions of thought and creation and eternal fires of birth: life and change. To this, then, I yield to the carrion culture that all must feedthe life force that once mobilized us is not but a burned out shell of what once was and now never will be again. Your tears of loss mean nothing to me nowI am but a memory: a once wisp of wind that caressed your life only for the moment that it took to pass. Doth thou not feel any loss? I don't care anymore...Idon'tcareanymore...
Allegro! "Read briskly; feel, rather than look at the words."
Every time we say goodbye I cry a little; every time we say good bye I die a little; every time we say goodbye I try a little; every time we say goodbye I a little; every time we say goodbye tit'a little; every time we say goodbye I diminish; every time we say god fi a little every time we say I don't give a shit a little. We must, never say a littleI love you, I need you, I kneel down before you!!! Please, please, never say...goodbye..a little...
Presto Vivace: i.e. read very, very fast!
Nay, scandon't try to focus on the words; repeat, over and over again and soon a thought pattern will make itself known. Trust me, it will. M.W.
ZZZZZZZZZZAAAAMMMMMim It comes so quicklyzzzzzz and leaves its indelible mark on any vagrant soul left untendedzzz but to your feelings of oppressed and deferential love gone blindzzzzit comes as no sense of priority or the subsequent use of that immutable fact that engulfszzzzzthose of us left to proponder the endless questions of time immimorialzzzz and the Macavillian demands zz that make there wayzzzinto the ABSOLUTE CORRIDORS of thought zzzzTRANSFERENCE ZZZZZZZZZZBEGGGINNNGS of the END. To what the metaphoric principle of thought transcends the endless velocity and concurrence of time itself. This is MY TESTAMENT; so be it!
Years ago now--in Rhodesia--listening to Voice of America with Willis Conover I heard Bunk Johnson play When The Saints Go Marching In, and Billie Holiday sing Don't Explain. I knew then there was no other life for me than jazz.