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Not a passenger upon a craft,
nor an eyelid wishing to open,
but the voyage of an eye which dreams.
No trust in memory or feeling,
but confident consistency in the desire of ‘Soon.”
Outward grows the existence of the deepwood,
crisp and moist is the wine-tasting decay,
outwards stretch the too long arms of thought,
thinking hands taking hold of:
opinions, flavored feelings, and wonderment.
Nay, but not a wanderer,
and surely not a destination,
but the transformation resulting of the “Spine.”
Bury figment flowers and plant figment seeds;
uncomprehending purpose,
yet still restraining resentments.
Seeking out the sweet things who lack themselves:
leaky bowls, dull knives, selfless men;
the thought that these things are beautiful is inward,
the love for beautifully broken things is heartwood:
ugly appearances felt so deep and lovely,
so much like being alone or words with layers:
‘Hello,’ ‘Residence,’ ‘Voice,’ and ‘Dear.’
Give possibilities your feet and footsteps
by not giving memories and regret your voice.
It is not to seek out momentary ‘Deepness,”
but the circumstance of a most-persistent honey,
hard-working bees of this geography make song,
and the song will always be heard in the heart.
Take action, and leave the bees to their work,
In time, through the crucible of smoke and crush,
you will find the sweetness:
through the mishaps and smashed haven,
you will taste the joy amidst the sting.