Apparently, this silent going about is casting spells about
Lures about; cures withheld
Apparently, this innocence is casting bewilderments about
No thoughts taken; no thought given
Just entrapments about
Apparently, this blankness is warm embrace
This oblivion, thrill to oblivion!
Oh, I envy your thrill
Mine to you
Mine into you
This drilling, this thrill, for my oblivion?
Ah, I envy your thrill!
It’s concealment unintended
It’s mere life from here—a going about
Breathing about, living about, contemplating about
Like yours—yet, yours present; mine, absent
Absent-minded
It’s concealment unintended
A shared human experience?
Sorry, never heard of it
I see nothing; so, nothing of which to speak
I see everything; so, nothing of which to speak
Nothing of which to share—to partake
Muted because the mind, it won’t keep shut
Yours is not mine
World, here’s a void!
Rich in its nothingness; rich in its everythingness
Rich in its concealment
Oh, apparently, this void about is casting enchantments about
Tempted into an apology
Yet, I know this to be true:
To know you is to know you
“Come here to us. Come here to us.”
They lie; they love this mystique!
Even more, true, they yearn sameness
So come here into this oneness—this staleness
To know you is to dissect you—to break you
All one is none at all
By God…
apparently, this one-ness about is throwing slights about
Stalemate:
Yours’ not mine
These actions, mine
These thoughts, yours
*****
Ah,
Couldn’t bear his thoughts.
Couldn’t bare his thoughts!
