Smells Like Content

Balance, repetition,

Composition, mirrors.

Most of all the world is a place

Where parts of wholes are described

Within an overarching paradigm of clarity,

And accuracy,

The context of which makes possible

An underlying sense of the way it all fits together

Despite our collective tendency not to conceive of it as such.

But then again, the world without end

Is a place where souls are combined,

But with an overbearing feeling of disparity,

Disorderliness,

To ignore it is impossible

Without getting oneself

Into all kinds of trouble

Despite one's best intentions

Not to get entangled

With it so much.

And meanwhile the statues are bleeding green,

And others are saying things

Much better than we ever could,

As the quiet become suddenly verbose.

And the hail is heralding the size of nickels,

And the street corners are gnashing together

Like the gears inside the head

Of some omniscient engineer,

And downward flows the garnered wisdom

That has never died.

When finally we opened the box

We couldn't find any rules.

Our heads were reeling with a glut of possibilities,

Contingencies,

But with ever increasing faith

We decided to go ahead and just ignore them

Despite tremendous pressure

To capitulate and fade.

So instead we went ahead

To fabricate a catalog

Of unstable elements, and modicums,

And particles

With non-zero total strangeness

For brief moments which amount

To nothing more than tiny fragments

Of a finger snap.

And meanwhile we're furiously sleeping green,

And the map has started tearing along its

Creases due to overuse,

When, in reality, it's never needed folds.

And the air's withholding the sound

Of a twelve-string,

And our heads are approaching a density

Reminiscent of the infinite connectivity

Of the center of the sun,

And therein lies the garnered wisdom

That has never died.

Expectation leads to disappointment.

If you don't expect something big,

Huge and exciting,

Usually uh, i don't know,

It's just not as, yeah.