Joints they creak reminding
There’s a funny way of finding
The remembered part of all of this:
That we are always all of this

The lines we draw between the funniness of conscious being
And its countless complex feelings demarcating self from world
An ancient trick self plays on self so that it may grow old

And feel old, a wealth of experiential finding
That finds these funny ways of finding ways of finding finding
That wind around and stay inside event horizons wide
Inside outsides, behind these eyes
Blind spots constantly confide

(Bonafide)

The absences are felt as much as presence
Precious prescience premonizing promises to keep
Lying down, paralyzed, the cyclic haze of sleep
We dream and cultivate and propagate the things we steep

(Sometimes awakening from the worst of dreams to weep)

And so it goes, when the mind is ready to accept
The possibility of pondering the terrors of its depths
That wring the horrors of our nature as we rip ourselves apart
Only to sew it back together when the sun burns up the dark

The dark will then return again, as will again the sun
Until the universe realizes it is one
And when it truly does, when the mess is all connected
It will blow itself to bits because to bits it is addicted