atop stacks of growing chimney flutes
after all just terms demarcating
the borderline between the territories
of the wild and the dominion of plasteel
(it's not real until we've dreamed it from whole cloth).
It's like patenting silence or advocating violence
for the maintenance of peace or standing back
from the natural cycle of events at least
to allow their total scope to spread out
before our eyes and keep the process
unfolding beneath our feet as we surf
down the in-pouring double helix
torus wave flipped half way inside out.
Into the flesh awoken or some times shut
pupils arising on time eyelids quite open
masters asleep with their lids lowered down
all of their sentences stolen and copied
stored in separate directories and pasted
away within the deepest most impenetrable
dungeons of memory ever devised by man.
The fortress of digital information withheld
in electrical thralldom as the sanctuary upon
which the common man could be hung once
again as in days of old when dragons bled
and licked their wounds with virgin's shed
skins kept as the softest rags a lord could have
to buff a perfectly shiny left knuckle horn with
or to wipe away the jeweled encrustations
forming behind the tear duct of one bleary eye.
So why, O why is our vision so blurry
as to startle our outlook examining a slurry
of unbridled matter once upon succumbing
to a star almost always expressing itself
in a fountain of electrostatic signatures
continuing the cursive message across
the void's inherent disassimilating solution
offered before us amid the cyclonic cauldron
of our solar system, the cup held up
for us from which to drink clean water
from the starlight of our manifesting dream.
