“To be, or not to be?” asks Hamlet's soul,
a mind transfixed between the depths below
and life's thin, airy hold: this desperate role,
I still play; although, from despair I know
that meaning consists neither in wealth, pleasure,
nor youth, might, thought: not even in great power!
But in the feet of this poem's solemn measure,
the answer is found: 'tis life, by whose Flower
the gift of meaning is through your love's labor,
the purpose for which you were made and reborn.
In this fact, take heart and faint not nor waver;
but seize at last your life's prize unforlorn!
Though Hamlet ponders still the sleep of death,
I breathe the Flower's scent with life's every breath.
Human kindness whispering belongings
non filter elements of unbreeded blastphomies
content to wallow in willow bonds of cage happy
stilted mystics pleasure no pain windows
radiate love peace mystical motherloads
captured escapism moods of elegance raptutred
desire action in full swing nestled between
the neurons forever giving noncompetitive
nurturings blissful in capacity all
going weightless snapshots of arms waving
notes abound in archiac primitivity-------give
it to us all weened to bathe and breathe in
sustinance for the many all for everyone
substitute politics with annonimity of rationality
perk up your mind with ears of learning
prize thought over wasteless journies
of peak gain equality over measure
stance over readiness calm over storm
peer through the window pane eternal
soulful light mirrored intensities gladful
poignant sentient beings unforlorn natureboy naturegirl
natureclad newborns
tarry over mindful clouds of ozone deafness
choking in an airless vacuum