Tinker

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December 7th

Suffocated in a jar,

The fog pushes down on my limbs,

I become a tiny spec on the inside of your arm,

and a piece of art from within,

I don’t see the past as holding any barriers,

since the water was stopped long ago,

but each waking day and each slumping night,

I see how far out seeds can blow.

A possible negative in my force field—

creates condensation on the glass,

A surrendered gesture of regret,

and, royally, a piece of the fast.

Walk! Free yourself!

Look amongst this Holy Land,

for indigo unveiling of the indigenous plan.

I stand here,

Holding no ropes,

just the ones tangled up in my head.

I notice,

I am not separate,

from that which is my hand.

I can feel that—

It is ruthless,

It is changing,

It is of nature to seek green.

—All is wonderful,

for allowing countless organic manifestations of one’s dream.

It’s surround sound blasting all around the room.

It’s kicking and screaming from Mother Nature’s womb,

It’s shaking my leg and looking into my eyes,

It’s helping me into the car,

for a dream, a drive.

It’s gliding up the stairs you make up for yourself,

It’s holding onto my hair,

as I slip off the shelf.

It’s forcing the voice so close to my ear,

and speaking words of depardom, as I fake a tear.

It’s warm water rushing upon past attempts,

It’s just another night,

It’s as great as it gets,

It’s waking in the morning,

holding up no signs.

It is worth it.

Is it worth it?

To be able to fly?

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