If I know of Sisyphus, but not of Micah
Then love is
But an anxious, tender elbow to the ribs

If I’ve established the arches of Archimedes
Yet haughty as regards the looking glass of Paul
Then around who’s indoctrination
Does my liberty spin?

He is Buddha consciousness
And not Buddha consciousness
He was poisoned under the Bodhi tree
Many summers ago

He is the Atman and Paramatma
The atom and the Adam
Yet would politely decline the offer
Or decree

He is a He
And He is a She
But now we’re grasping at straws

He is Mohamed
And the message he gave through Mohamed
Teased into existence by the elegant algorithmic
Miracle dope

When love planned it’s dissonant rush
Fused in the sacrament of the “all”
In truth unfurled,
Transfinite, post-indigo, untamed, not repeated
Secret moon magic wild elderberry’s
Deep indigent blush
Colored dust of love’s miracle myth
In the bright crimson kiss like praises
That transpire
In every seed that ever wept

Evolution Involution
It just keeps sleeping and awakening
And blossoming ever onward
Inside You

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