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Slick Prism

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Start from the heart
and you can never go wrong.
Like the Last Love Song,
sung into the eyes of Death,
and felt throughout time to the very dawn of creation.
May your speech be truth,
your tongue, angelic.
Let your words come from the core,
a deep vibration,
and one that is tuned to the same pitch as the planet
in its golden infancy.
Once you can reach those depths,
once you can take your shivering finger,
and dip the very tip into that primordial prism slick,
the ripple forms everlasting
and stays with you for all time,
through all inklings of fear
and self-doubt.

Always be on course to the source,
strive for the eternal dive,
onward and inward,
to the head of the snake swallowing its tail,
and the birth of the fading fractal.
It’s tactically practical
for the mapless mind
behind the eyes of the broken and blind.

Instinct and Intuition
sit on opposing shoulders,
each dragging one side of the rag
being pushed and pulled to polish away
the oil of others and grey matter fray.
Don’t disrupt their process
but listen as they whistle and work away
to guide your action and steady your thought.
They are the ancient shoe shiners
and they know how to scrub the scope.

One of heart, one of mind,
the wisdom of space they will teach you in time.
They know of holy rolling hills,
divine peaks with righteous depth,
and show sequestered ancestors,
the hungry hunter’s primal pep.

Listen to your aching love pumper
when it argues with the upstairs neighbor,
that dry old sponge.
They’re just working out the instinct kinks
and hang-ups in your intuition fruition.
It’s a process of patience
and a test of a soul’s true grit
to sit in silence
and face the fear of the clear mirror.
So, please, let them do their job
and thank yourself later.

Just give up your boots,
and allow them to prep.
They’ll leave a gleam in your gait,
and a shine
in your step.
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