Each step wakes into day or night,
Sleeping, waking, dreaming.
There are a finite number of steps we will make.
a monstrous finite breaths we will take.
Knowing! that the period will come to an end.
of that hallowed, blasted trance of a sentance.
How does one not live in fear,
When ancestors dissappear?
What's that about?
(This everyday life...alarm clock goes off!
we wake in this body made from earth.
We know just a little bit ahead:
Pressed into expansive coalition...).
It's so important!
this incredibly valuable air.
If you can't breathe,
Every Treasure doesn't matter!
See art with only people's eyes being able to appreciate beauty.
This existance has only happened to us people.
And how rare are these events?
The total number of all people ever born combined,
Even though we may call our numbers trillions,
form a ridiculously trite number.
Compared to 1 solitary aspect:
infinity x infinity= the universe.
respect just how rare and precious you truly are.
Also, how do we know...
Air, fire, earth, water, heat, light.
All these constructs,
They frantically tried to make sense from,
You know everything,
and yet let us be told
those are the only truth.
And believing we are actually home.
When we could wake up someday
And find this was just nothing
But an evil dream.
Perhaps Another Alarm will go off,
Set by something greater
and the world is waiting still...
...and yet the time is correct,
for the first time.
There's the North Star not needed.
It was just a pleasant compass.
Held its comfort by more multi-faceted good,
That can be perceived
in this day/night nueva earth.
Nor azure dervish earth,
though spinning fantastic, yet.
Drumming and singing
to a universal conductor...
now darkish and quiet.
as we called it,
from its little
NOW we are advanced, we said.
We can go all the way to the moon,
and whizz around on the crust of our fiery planet.
We can measure it and even make predictions
when it will die.
And kill the fear with morphine...
They probably don't
stand on planets
millions of light-years away
So, how can we rest?
Really, and truly.
The mind is still feverishly awake,
after having tormentedly dreamt,
It is the Ultimate Truth.
The Most Significant.
Those teeny little neurotransmitters
that go 'round and 'round
joining and interacting and combining,
Abraham Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth,
and some poor retard,
running 'round a padded room,
wearing a football helmet,
'though he will never play the game.
What happens to all this when we die?
Is it basically a matter of weights and measures?
Do (or how do) neurotransmitters act
(IF they act)
in the grave?
Or after cremation. Etc.
From a very personal POV?
Ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Anyway, my life, in particular,
was a recurring nightmare
of not being able to find home.
(Though I always managed
to keep a roof over my head,
Since I kept my priorities $traight)!
And, finally, my beloved cat.
My poor little black and white loving cat.
at this minute,
on top of some landfill...
Because his human owned no land
and had no money
to pay to the vet
to bury him.
as this vet,
who owes student loans,
My sweet little black and gray tiger cat
is headed for the same,
As I am thrice,
So, I'm trying to learn
how not to be sad or upset,
at this disconcerting state of affairs...
My beloved cat's body lays still
Disintegrates and putrifies,
and all that surrounds
even though I wrapped his little body
in a luxurious royal blue and gold blanket,
with some catnip
and a few of his favorite toys
from his too short life.
While I agonize.
I can almost hear him trying to comfort ME.
Saying That's OK, Daddy.
I see the magmnificant stars at night.
I couldn't if I were buried in a grave
If "I" were really "gone" when my body stopped
Then you could just go back,
Retrieve my poor little physical body,
And all would be well.
Maybe my cat wants to teach me
to find home
that doesn't depend on
or the graces
I'm listening to the
The window where hope shines.