Aperture

By the one who sits near the throne,

never on it…,

like a poached egg,

floating in the river bed,

silently soothing,

tiny and wild beasts run by,

dragonflies hovering,

silently crawling bugs and slugs

and other curious things,

its abdomen is out the water,

like a raft…,

bellybutton looking for sun,

the freakiest of apertures,

what fascinating meaning,

no meaning at all,

here it just is…,

he, she, them,

a sound of silence,

forever more,

until the swans come home,

the roosters, nagging geese,

all birds of some ancient sky,

some lonely farm,

pastures of green,

foam of seedlings,

pine cones and needles,

slouching in the wind,

through the cracks of pavement,

that used to be hot,

in a forgotten Summer,

she lost it (in Asylum),

of seasonal mourning,

let’s go, let’s go…,

to and fro,

that is the pendulum of Being,

a quiet whisper,

a dream within a dream…,

within a dream,

of a throne room,

filled with pure star light,

crystals of space…,

a greenery, a scene,

here they wrestled,

without meaning,

to be forgetful,

to Be, to Be, to Be.