"Somethings Aren't Like Others"


Iron into salt

Burnt virgin blossoms melt

Behind orange curtains

A young finch cries

But no one hears

If one has ears


If one has eyes


There must be something more

Than this

If you cleave a piece of wood

Or turn over a stone

Will you find yourself?

What's behind the face

That feels?

That hurts?

That realizes?

All things

Shall end

The beginning of it all

Is in fact the last

It will be like

The first night

Of the stones

All shall be in all

A risen



Will never let go

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