Making sense

I can touch with my spirit. My spiritual hand wisps across consciousness like smoke from a fire.

My minds eye stares through the physical realm as you begin to evanesce and intentions older than time reveal the aurora within.

I hear the tears of history raining down on barren fields crying out for an ocean of love within the peace of a raindrop flooding humanity.

I’ve tasted your world and it’s plastic attempts at recreating nature. It’s just texture to chew on while the mind reflects on the succulent joy of flesh and bone, bark and sap, mixed with blood and air to replenish the earth.

My sense of smell warns me the path of men is no place for a man and within mankind there is ignorance. It’s the man, not men, who stand alone with the wind in their face who stoically avoid the fetid intentions of the pack gone rogue.

I think, therefore I am is an eternal beacon to remind us to make sense, use sense, and be sense within a world gone mad. Ancient winds remind us we can touch without hands, see without eyes , and taste without our mouth. We can hear the world without ears and smell death without flared nostrils. The world is within us, all we have to make sense to feel it.

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