me, drive my every motion
with whips: crackling with fear, fear
of the uncertainty of the sound
which swells and blossoms in spumes of foam--
drops of water, sunlight-filled, glinting in
euphoria, cavorting in joyous
spiral-splatter dances-- and builds
force, becoming the tidal
mighty
thundering surf of l'mar d'angustia.
and on every beach, the shells (they sing, oh how they
sing:to no end or rhyme or rationalized reason),the shells, the shells
with voices of impunity, purity--
cackles and shackles and sobbed-out dreams
and screams of anguish [both mortal
and mental,
inconsequential]--
and glee, righteous fury
propel me: forever and on
hum with the luster of a day
that's unsure, uncertain but
never any-thing but dangling-- ripened, and
with portent--
in the everything of the present moment;
and nothing of the nothing which is Not,
which is Without; it
begot not a thing
but hot, deadly Doubt unto a Time
out of time;
which has no reason;
no rational rhyme.
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