This is a theory. This is not a test.
This is just a theory; it’s all I have.
It may be wrong; might be right.
But I’ll save the conjecture for a different time.
Locked in the garage, fumbling through the cellophane, scrambling for a clue.
Forager, card reader, friend to a foe, foe to a friend, consolidated worsening woes. Pattern your dignity; upon jars of sand, you optimistically use to weigh down tents. Profit the margins greed and glory; mask the human-interest story, with obvious analogies that transcend rhetorical glee, where as it affirms the pore expanding limits of whimsy.
This is a theory.
A theory where redlines rule supreme.
It is one, in which gravitational spatter cools then chills.
It swallows the feeble. It makes them whole.
It protects the weak; from the hollowed ground we shall swell.
Gross replications, of manipulated ire, ravage the forests; entangle the ingratiation process, making every gift, that of a begrudging dog amidst barren and wild, rampant fires.
Atop a minion filled mountain,
High in the abode above where ether dwells, a dark power is motivating, encouraging and plotting a final decree. In the icy slopes up the ravine, glorified temples are what we will see. Runes, draped in volcanic residue, denizens lost forever in their moment of greatest surprise. Apparently the dormancy, itself, was also a well-played disguise. “Eliminate your contingency, close to the point, where referendums pass and relishing becomes.” This is the message beneath the words, a subconscious element never announced in clarity. Porridge of society, we blanket thee.
And so the hour shall arrive.
A sun shower shall fall in line.
Dominoes, each of the ignorant shall be.
Across the frozen ground, simulations of swans, dagger about the frost filled land, searching, lapping up each mistake, and preparing for the arrival of the purification machine. With their double bladed beaks of mallard blight, parting the ground, as the contraption lands its legs in flight. Double-barreled upper body, limbs like vacuums, extinguishing the external flames, coinciding with a crushing snake, under foot, under metallic boot.
Its shadow emanates from sunbeams.
A blast of darkened gold, sheltering promise, to those still holding belief, above the detention they’ve encountered, over this extended conundrum of fowl squander, extensive lunch-lines, one in which the end is filled with slop and grime.
A panther, purple-black, meanders by the machines, slowly moving lower limbs, snatching up the ailing swine, unaffected by wind or suction, to which it’s teeth and jaws perform the extraction function.
And geese flock from the stars.
V-formations break as they swoop unto.
Planting seedlings into a now fertile strand.
It will grow.
It will become.
The land we’ve lost, the land we thought was ours to own and burn.
Upon the finale, the bubble, from where the pure reside, shall break. An outpouring, onto this new forged landscape of possibility, floods abound.
First a wrist, then an arm, inch by inch the body grows, customizing its dichotomy, to a life that’s toxin free.
A new path shall become.
No value outside of survival.
No feelings other than love and deep embrace.
Nothing negative floating through the sky and space.
Humanity is at one with nature.
It lives again.
Free in form and free it sings.
It’s a song so powerful.
Divinity is gracing eardrums, lusting for connective states.
Promise replaces promiscuity.
Living replaces bloating in starvation.
Barely staying afloat.
Returning to our garden state.
A new sensibility emits, pure and unembarrassed, by whom we are and who we’re meant to be.
Luscious vineyards with lavish lakes are all green and billowing. Vegetation sustains.
Promotions of serenity enliven the stoic grace, suppressed in wait.
Now is the time for rebirth.
It is in this place we are reborn.
Open yourself, open wide.
Let the brisk of air crash and collide.
It enters, above the lips, caressing ridge and tongue amidst, a path to soul and heart. Lifting. Sculpting. Sensations know nothing of its likeness. Only trance can par the affirmations in this space. We become: Alive and dancing, praying and chanting, with no concern, not a care, wound by love that’s in the air. We’ve come unwound. We lose all strings taut. We are in love with everything.
And the only demand that is made unto us: Do not taste the fruit you see. Eat all the vegetation you can gleam, BUT DO NOT sample the taste hanging from this one solitary tree.
Temptation we’ve yet to learn.
But a slither can be heard.
It is a whisper we’ve never heard.
It’s a sound that shakes the barley.
It’s a song we will want to know, it’s every key, it’s every not.
Does curiosity once again become our scourge?
There is no need to guess.
For this is but a theory.
Yet it is a test nonetheless.