The Art of Saying Nothing
Gather the soft clay while you can,
the junk mail, the tissue paper, the living speech of man.
Be utterly open to the frozen winter landscape,
to the buttercup, the faded blue, the magic flight, the shape.
At first it is a lumpy loom, a box of random words,
a snowman flying wordless with the melancholic birds.
Layer the torn washi tape, let common accents fall,
poetry is the art of saying nothing much at all.
Then take the chisel to the stone to free the hidden face,
cut away the lazy phrase, the ghost of time and space.
The mystery is the absence, the silence left behind,
the lines that shine like stars inside the borders of the mind.
No rigid rules to shackle verse, just listen to the air,
read the beating line aloud and strip the sculpture bare.
For gifts are not the reason that we block the text in blue
we only do it for the rhythm, pushing, pulling through.
villain music came on just like in the sixties grayscale TV shows
dun dun dun dun
cowboy appears in a white hat
we know who he is
next guy walks out in triple black, large guns
I hiss and boo at him
I was taught this during my childhood
bullying was okay back in the day
I cheered for the hero
anticipating the outcome
the script never varies
yet here I sit, watching it, every time
An outlook on life varies from person to person
Various aspects do count
Your ideology
Your experience
Your view
Your emotional quotient
Your intelligent quotient
Your conscience
Your confidence
Your perseverance
Your perception
And lastly maybe the influence of a religion
But there's no rights or wrongs
No perfection
No flawless guidelines
And so we lead a different life
With different consequences and endings
And so we're so eager to find
Any voices from heaven
Any signs from heaven
With our eyes,our hearts and our souls
Fanning grass:-,
what could it be,
if it were green?.
what is truth to know
consensuses may differ
truth varies never
very small figures
one's added with two in sum
big or small three's there
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