Perhaps when we sing we imitate it all

Looking out classic-square-window-four-even-corners you can’t defy can’t escape

What you do see is not what you see, and all in all is nothing but one - looking out means you’re looking in, and the song’s still playing, the song’s still playing.. yes writers are selfish wanting the very best, willing others to see or just recognize what was once written, stated at some point in the existence of a passing life - that this thought was thought, this saying was said, this feeling felt, and that person met, so close to winning a competition of transforming incomprehensible images into mere flat words, pen on paper, typing as fast as fingers can as neurons fire from mind to fingertip but the speed of your thought can’t be raced, vaporizing drops leak out, lost in the melting mess of chaos, until another soul discovers the stream, its no match - unlike matches made in heaven pelting questions of will he, will she? Those questions across centuries of courtship unveil meaning in life or death as the two singled means: the period and the comma, the space and the emptiness that fills it, we ask when will it come - that moment of everlasting peace? Underneath hard exteriors where we long for such, we hunger in intensity so great everything turns numb and dull beneath false advertising in spirit.


Since gravity holds selective matter in place and chooses her allies carefully, she sports the power to bring those down that desire to fly and sing with no limitations or window panes.


Yet – with head held high, the little stalk pushes its way into the looming world, from earth into sky, darkness into
light.