Shall we pray as one united entity - try our best?
Or are we all programmed to explode upon contact with the creator?
Like atoms at fissure curtailed no longer or, free from doubt?
Do we choose in the end - make an effort or make no difference?
Fibres in the fabric of absent matter awaiting its slot of exposure to the god- head gushing as its meant?
Or as close to no consequence as is possible to get without having lived and left a trace
wherever life leads, wherever we tread
before its shell returns what spiritual force we imagine runs true when drawing up our breath?
What blueprint's mapping our conceptual landscape as we post thought from a lectern postured stance of academic sense?
Does a lettered gown within there curl outward sans serif?
Straight lines anchor to a thread of fixed alertness
woven as one mesh of presence adorning the seive of whatever filter perculates the essential sketch
discerened as we cross the egg yolk film thin threshold and surrender our souls to the void of death?
Will we notice if we sink or lift in the evenly weighted balance of passageways linking the extremities and depths inherent in joyous sorrow to the earth upon which ineffable order unfolds our flesh?
Are we campaigners in a familiar yet ancient faith environment, ideal to situate the practice of managing language made artefacts, whose restoration
comes through the simple act of allowing our reverance an outlet to access the mystery in a climate laid bare of waste;
where vectors of dispersal are a continual Yeatsean deportment of the gyre's gyrational flux which emanate the role of beings we play
in the characters breathing creation through lines this life demanded we took from the pages our eyes came to rest on as we read the self wrote book?
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