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"Supernature" The walls have eyes here they are all hungry they reach up to pluck words like apples to eat from sacred trees, it feeds and fuels them on their irregular journeys through their pleasing dappled gardens, gone all dark, forests and woods jaded green, into their long nights they darkly split, fractions of light, into dreams like seen as through crystal fragments of other lives kept tucked away and hidden under warm headed pillows, like waiting for the tooth fairy to collect the loss of something once so precious in exchange for something beyond belief, I believe in one God like I am a Dadaist spontenaity, negation and absurdity, I am well open to absurdities, well Open, the words reverberate: “Life’s not a practice run.” - then what is Life for in the living, the purpose of it all if we are indeed returned to the main depository like books read, and again re-contracted like students to re-attend for the re-run of lessons, and the continual re-examinations, the positive and negative test results, taken and given taken and given, given and taken? surely the practice of returning is for the continual running of Life, the disorderly keeping of the orderly ordained things, failures, mistakes, good deeds, miracles and sins, repent, repeat again, we wake to live it all over again we wake to live it all over again like glitches in our own personal matrix - and only when the lesson is finally learned, we are then kept for all eternity in Elysium, fixed? I wonder why then, many make the decision to return back-to-Earth again? the reality is found in small absurdities, like waifers thin, mass-produced and consecrated, swallowed at Evensong through music like prayers sung, I sing to call in God what's inside listens and contemplates the rights from the wrongs I swim in the Ocean like it’s a re-occuring baptism for one life taken, another life given it’s natural for the tide to return to the shore the light of the Moon, always sinks below the horizon, what’s inside walks barefeet out of the wash footprints leave their marks in the sand this much is real this much I know the Sun rises again, and again Candide Diderot. ‘24 "Your path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen..." a conversation.
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