Reclusland

Purple monkey wrenches, flung through the air by red baboons.
Done they are, with working on the master’s cars.
Time travel and the pyramids fill their thoughts. Lost continents…

Whence Atlantis? And why Atlantis?
Too much said already; the dryness comes.
Descend, oh seeker! Lower yourself into the watery depths.
Soak, become muddied, deluded, diluted. Disillusioned.

In the bamboo forests of the mind, peppered with blind ninjas,
Thoughts crash and slash each other, when by random chance they meet.
Such a war of double speak. Can you contain these multitudes?

More importantly, should you?

I feel the desert returning; the jungle people are growing tired.
The sea people are laughing as they ride the tides away.
The desert people sit, staring dully at the whispering sands around their feet.

Is this, then, to be the source? The chrysalis and the butterfly?
Perhaps we are better off without such dusty butterflies…

But if not this, not now, not here…
Then what, when, where?

It is not as if it can’t happen. But will it ever happen?

To retain our relevance, we must grow within and out of.

Have we not learned by now, how birth is a bloody, horrible struggle?

Labor pains, and in the seventies, the water broke.
More blood, more struggle…
Now we must push! And breathe!

Let them tell you it can’t be done. Let them tell you it is not worth the struggle.
Let them continue to stare at the dust, these desert people.
We will reclaim our jungle. And if it is not to be reclaimed, we will build it anew.

The kingdom of heaven is inside you and all around you.
Why will you not-see-it?