Post by singerofsongs on Aug 16, 2020 7:35:36 GMT
Embracing cartesian principle
Metaphor awaken, vision sought
I dreamt of a diamond desert
Through which leviathans languish
Some passing eternity lapses
Scoops a fistful o shards savagely
Crushed to a form
A mortal instrument
Given breath, ego
Tumbled gracelessly down
A mere ripple breaking the surface of our little wishing well of time
This dear tipple slaking the God’s lust, creation; a spell, a dime
Time in essence is surely not a line?
Our conscious perception appears to move forward
Think instead of an ocean of thought and perception
A well of osmosis, ripples refracting off each little platonic cave, echoing beyond
As our divine prisms drift downwards, a line may be drawn
Our entry and eventual rest, cessation of momentum by the ocean bed
Yet our dreams, be they night or day, our hopes fears aspirations, nay, our very souls’ cries of song echoing
May they not rise above this vista? Find a lonely island on which to dwell?
From whence to gaze avidly down upon the sea of thought, glimpsing memory, tempting prophecy?
Sensing through the swirling mists o waves other rippling echoes?
Potential fires and floods in six dimensions, what may yet to come or may never Be felt in this particular niche of time?
Perhaps our Siamese twins of conception merge above the waters, sharing thoughts with our selves in alternate reality?
Yet these diamonds from which our souls are wrought...
Be they naught but shards of Gaia?
Mother Earth herself, the one eternal conscience of our little niche?
From whence we all have come, to whom we all must return?
Perhaps certain egos burn so bright as to hold together essence, fling forever récurrence unto the well.
Let your wish ripple
Metaphor awaken, vision sought
I dreamt of a diamond desert
Through which leviathans languish
Some passing eternity lapses
Scoops a fistful o shards savagely
Crushed to a form
A mortal instrument
Given breath, ego
Tumbled gracelessly down
A mere ripple breaking the surface of our little wishing well of time
This dear tipple slaking the God’s lust, creation; a spell, a dime
Time in essence is surely not a line?
Our conscious perception appears to move forward
Think instead of an ocean of thought and perception
A well of osmosis, ripples refracting off each little platonic cave, echoing beyond
As our divine prisms drift downwards, a line may be drawn
Our entry and eventual rest, cessation of momentum by the ocean bed
Yet our dreams, be they night or day, our hopes fears aspirations, nay, our very souls’ cries of song echoing
May they not rise above this vista? Find a lonely island on which to dwell?
From whence to gaze avidly down upon the sea of thought, glimpsing memory, tempting prophecy?
Sensing through the swirling mists o waves other rippling echoes?
Potential fires and floods in six dimensions, what may yet to come or may never Be felt in this particular niche of time?
Perhaps our Siamese twins of conception merge above the waters, sharing thoughts with our selves in alternate reality?
Yet these diamonds from which our souls are wrought...
Be they naught but shards of Gaia?
Mother Earth herself, the one eternal conscience of our little niche?
From whence we all have come, to whom we all must return?
Perhaps certain egos burn so bright as to hold together essence, fling forever récurrence unto the well.
Let your wish ripple
