There was a time when we owned ourselves — when intent was action, when a crow on a low branch meant something specific about one’s soul. When words were not cheap.
Delusion has been with us from the beginning — indisputable. But where we used to rise from time to time to know the world, now we lie in Delusion’s bed and never wish to wake.
Until we were cut and therefore understood — we are deeply confused.
Morning — the sun rose and the world was newly strange. Nothing made sense.
Our sun rose unseemed
Haikubaritsu – burning –
We regard ourselves
Too seriously
Night falls — 2nd saber. We stand in the road still confused, trying to shake the feeling that we are impostors here. Dangerous thoughts cut swaths of our brains into adrenalized blank slates. An old mule kicks at the granary. The children who hear him dwell upon ghosts.