Fighting for what? For freedom—me thinks that this is not something won in battles, but rather something gained in respectful relations. Where is the center if I am looking into the world? Will I find myself on the peripheral of that place, or myself? But on the flip slide ride the sides disintegrate and center weaves circumference like boundaries manifest middle. My gray dogs know the score as they dig up the buried bones from charred fields. Howling into the void they pee on the wind that winds the time of hands and plans and dreams and schemes. Time is a sucker’s game where the name remains the same, the beat goes on, and the needle skips the groove time and again. Scratch it up! Cut it up on the turn table as we spin diZzy circles—one foot spiked into the ground and the other kicks high into sky. We’ve our heads in the clouds but remain proud to be, and that’s all. It’s simple really when the end and the beginning meet in a bow that has shot this arrow of fire and fury through the center of the void—piercing the absolute, a breach to infinity unfolded, and from this the phenomena molded, and to me my life is bolded, but only because it’s my window into the soul.
F.L.O.W. |
