i've painted the strobes of melancholy,
i've hurled the knives of desire,
yet dreams of purity keep me at bay
thru the clouds of creative fire.
the wicked ego charges up thru the chakras,
alleviating the passivity of indifference...
all the while life continues forward
with or without cause is not of concern,
for cause is but a worm inching its way
thru the timelessness of existence,
never reaching its potential until
it turns upon itself in meditative awe.
seeing the breath of life pulsating
within the structure of its being,
knowing damn good and well that the
questions it has are only reflections
based upon the extrapolations of humor
that only we can fathom thru mindlessness,
that churns throughout the telemetronic
world of beasts and brush... endlessly..