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a watchful eye of creative complexity
Some poetry writing:
After life there comes death.
Death, like a sweet fruit—
firm with a light crunch, wet, unsubtle taste,
After death begins life.
Life like a hand abruptly removing the quiet—
forceful and loud, dry, soured awakening.
Digging feet into the ground,
Clawing for the moments before.
Weighing down into the light of darkness.
The light of darkness before life,
The light of non conceived masses of being,
of blood that’s blood
and eggs that are eggs,
of truth that doesn’t exist
and breath that is not needed,
of a non-existing existence of nonexistence.
The light of darkness confirms the dark is lightness.
It’s a light of flat-lines in a place of chaos,
of mobility in a space of confinement,
of flame cleansing structure,
and water drowning faith,
of blinding power over-shining within,
of a knowledge over-consumed,
of a whiteness too impure,
of fire consuming all.
We are here.