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What I want

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  • What I want

    What I want is for you to quit ignoring me, and the consequences of everything that's done which ripples outwards in the wind, multiplies through the shaking of the limbs, stalls not to push against the house, and die in the streets spreading out. What I want is for the animal to take one step back, and retrocognize: For, from frame by frame moving through the shuttered eye within, the blinking happens so dang unconsciously. Ripping seeds out of shells themselves, the broken open present fits into the mightiness of trees. And birds do sing to hear that strangeness live, it's moving in the hands of people unknowing it. It's heaven in a glance, a glint, and there is no advancement of beyond without the hint of vigilance, multiplied and magnified by God who guides the Words and words pressing so immediate, subtle, futures away from me. When I do know, when I do not. The winds form doors in the flowers that barely live; it's slack to a caterpillar, fat and green. It eats and eats, in its own sort of dream, and I'm separate thinking human thinking. Duh, it's in the atmosphere: The thinking continues until a soup forms from your ears, and like words that spell the future state, we connect and formulate the next decision.
    Protocol of Unity, haste gets over on me; it's of the Devil.
    And when I stare the eyes in front of me will eventually shut,
    Won't they?

    Because that's something I want.

  • #2
    This veered off from my original intent, somehow, so it may be disjointed.

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    • #3
      Heaven in a glance,
      a glint,
      and there is no advancement
      of beyond
      without the hint
      of vigilance


      Reading, I felt it rhyme.
      Yet line by line
      declaimed that wrong
      Disjointed in the blink
      still consciousness
      elides the kink,
      the parse points
      seamless.


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      • #4
        Love that sort of short riddle there. Thanks for the feedback.

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        • Johntee
          Johntee commented
          Editing a comment
          As you write
          some rhyme
          arises.
          Flowers
          bloom in prose.
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