The Strange Art Of Being Forgotten

Spring is thumping on the heels of Winter
I can Feel it like a cord
in my sternum, fetching crimson from a Wasteland
With the kind of Focus
that would make a Third Eye blush.
A cumbersome terrarium
of almost Being Here-
coupled with the Dire Hope
of the fracas of my actual
Discontent.

in my pursuit of a genuine manifestation…
I can allude to the Following…

II

Birth is where you come from-
and you can’t stop it.
Being. is what you do
when you Stop.

Until You Don't.