The Bloom

There's a sinuous interlacing of subterranean elements

 work together to support us whether or not we're intelligent. 

When they break through to the light of day 

they may provide enough shade to sit beneath 

and wonder about some long afternoon in the distant future. 

Someone decides once again they were and always have been 

the focus of the universe, to mirror the central feature, 

Or at the very least the center of the universal phenomenon 

which existence appears to be fashioned after.  

At this time.  Reflected through them alone. 

Just like everyone else today as well as in the long tomorrow. 

The way in which these matters become important to us 

depends on our own part in the unfolding manifestation. 

What they call around here the Bloom.
The development of interchanging roles from roots 

to branches and earth to sky remains as open a puzzle 

as it ever was. The trouble with secrets in the light of day

seems to be that invariably they'll be mistaken for trinkets 

by many, only to be taken for adorning their display cases. 

That is alright, for there remains enough of it to go around.

No one who escapes with a morsel of truth 

may be called a thief  for the Blooming continues, 

this remains the ever relied upon unwritten rule. 

It's permutational shapes appear in unexpected ways. 

Sometimes expressed between sunrises and sunsets,  

And other times during our dreams in between days. 

 

NETTED in TIME

Be wary of the swallowing tide that whispers beneath the sheen of all things. From the pair of captured eyes staring back at you from the corner of the room, one from an old 80's LP vinyl record album cover and the other from the spine of a recently published hardcover biography of a popular comic book writer, it only takes the slightest gesture of the head to widen the scope of vision and pan across to reveal more examples. A pair of eyes in black and white whose lids are sewn to their upper cheeks respectively remain mutely on display upon a postcard of CLaWFiNger's album DEAF DUMB BLIND taped to the wall and the visage of the Joker glares back from his grimacing clown white mask leering on the cover of the latest DC comic sprawled on the coffee table. Various pairs of eyes from family photos stare back in their different degrees of emotion captured spontaneously during that moment the photographs were taken. Photographs like this seem to be one of the few things that are taken which end up remaining in our possession. A haunting process regardless of any which way you slice it. Because even after the photos have been left behind, we carry our memories of them with us until gradually, after we've traversed even more acreage of time, the images of them begin to fade in our mind. Eventually we forget about them altogether. In the end we must forget about ourselves. What other reason could there be for our existence than to celebrate it? Keep shining on.