On ancient paths lie ruins, runes carved on the bark of bare earth.
Beside the brazen countryside lies a tree, one in full blossom,Under which a magician sits, all alone, yet all entranced,
In motions of his own, for only his eyes to see,
the hearts of woman never to see, the hearts which could so easily be conquered.
On the paths of journey one wonders where one might go,
and for what one might travel.
To another land I wish my future, and the future of my future,
until the end when I rest in a land oh so foreign,
that I can perceive not how I landed thereon, and hereon I wish to go on.
But in my thoughts I have thought of what is the mystery of life,
the priest’s life or the butcher’s life,
So easy to contrast, so easy to ridicule,
But to what ultimate honor do they work,
for if there was a reason I would ask in each one.
While I write, in confusion are my thoughts, and yet I know what I ask,
like Socrates said he wasn’t wise, but then what was he,
if a legend is grown out of such words, the depth of actions lives in our hearts.
Those who hasten to mortality strive for immortality,
and in such ways and through so many thoughts one shall never really know.
The powers circle, and destiny comes calling,
karma the other word, or is it all an almighty excuse, Excuse me but didn’t that wise one say that coincidence is the way god remains anonymous,
but if coincidence is coincidence,
on the face of it my face can see the light,
But man loves to run, run to his sacred cave of comfort,
on the setting sun, he will set his thoughts, turn around and find an escape, for his conscious to sleep at night,
while I sit, stroking the cats fur, as if in thought,
and yet in despair for why are our eyes so filtered.
Love and drugs, alcohol and money, sins and gratification.
What’s the difference, ‘tis all the same, an escape to awaken to a life of distaste on the broken wings of hopeless hope,
water flows till our flow is broken, for not many will turn the tide on the full moon tide,
for weak is the heart when a snow clad mountain rises into the sky.
Alone and together, yet satisfied, and unsatisfied,
The grass growing old, the rivers flow swift, always too swift when you step on.
The structure of yourself your mind will build,
in work when submerged one loses the mind of power.
Let it drink from the cups of change and change the cups pouring through your thoughts.
And as the magician lies, eyes capped with his hat of profession,
my mind glides through the cool country breeze, and rests, against the bark of the tree.
Staring into the mind of the man,
Is this the picture of satisfaction?
For I’m lost in a mrism of floating figures, all encompassing, yet
charismatic,
pulling my soul in each way, with a glint of gold in their eyes like god,
But ‘tis all an illusion of illustrious imagination,
for in each one there aint no peace but a calling for another to make their peace,
Lay yourself on the steppes and as the horses graze,
hear your words ring out,
let the starry sky conquer the night while you submit to nature,
for pristine and purity are the children it reared,
let’s not battle with the ones born, to live and die in peace.
Mrism = a vacuum
