Thursday, November 1, 2012

aMUSEing: Poetry for ya Head


This is a new piece, all copyrights reserved.

***

The map and the terrain are never the same
and dead birds are just a myth
because the sights in our eyes are lies in the mind,
the only sense external comes within.

In the space where we be the path unfolds three
whether we believe it or not.
So while the road be fraught
with unusual thoughts,
the oil lamp lights the stream.

In that delicate dance
of tension and chance
we find that the work never wares;
so when that last breath is taken
we won’t be mistaken
that the timing is any less than fare. 

The map and the terrain are never the same
and all ways are relative to self,
because the steps that we make take us farther away
while we move steadily home anyway.

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