Written: July 6, 2005
Untitled
The whipping of my hair hair like a windsock
Teasing detachment
Misleading detachment
The everydayness of miracles is lost on most
Choosing sameness they keep at their posts
Posted on the walls in letters of blood: STATUS QUO
Individuality: a no show.
How do we bend those things which refuse to be budged?
To see these clear echoes of life's magnanimity?
Force is fiction fueled by the few
Never-changing and vexed, with the depth of a puddle
Exploration is existing carrying with it a notion of being as more than mere moss held captive by a rock.
What is your rock?
That thing which declares a holdfast upon you?
I used to think that it was the roots that meant the most,
offering a semblance of permanence to an otherwise empirical ghost.
But the roots are bolstered illusions
fueled by our shaking, trembling hands
Passed off, most readily, and incorrectly, as Divine Command
When we create our realities
that which is miraculous grows
to heights previously unseen, untested and unthoughtof by most.
Live in this moment and author your next
Truly miraculous
Life at its best
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