lies the surge that spills and moves this One to act;
tips the urge that moves then stills the tears that trace
in rivulets across the face that can’t resist the myth that certainty exists.
Lies. The calculating mind that drives us to distraction—
full of shards and knives that pierce and slice
all sense of what is whole and true and meant, to bits
that have no rhythm, rhyme nor consequence.
lies a life in raw kaleidoscopic specks that float and shift in patterned drifts, adrift
in senseless seas of wretched fear that this is all there is, beyond our mental mortal rifts.
Lies? Or simply fictions told of lives, for want
of meaning more than facts and feelings tell. We claim
as truths our ways are best—as proof of life and worth
beyond the bones and skin of immaterial selves?
Bliss behooves the one who puts in place her rational grip beside each part, so all can
move and sway in co-created patterned play—
such artistry between, is Symmathesic Agency.
Bliss becomes, when finally, we see what is, is not.
Bliss belies the lie that change comes on command.
Bliss beholds—as tension tips—the dance as it unfolds.
Bliss befalls—when flow begins to flow between receptive holes.