Precedence in expression comes as an attack,
Frontal to anyone whose inner eyes are closed or dim;
Signs of deep betrayal camouflaged in subtle gestures, slim
Effort to disguise emotion in its many bodies will not back
An image or conclusion reaching out from the abstract of the soul.
As in the end, beginnings broadly drawn and crudely etched
Within the memory yield stem cells for vanity and little but stretched
Canvases-in-waiting for raw imagination. The lotus cannot unfold.
Rarely mentioned are the consequences in the general rounds;
The finite mind will dictate penalties and fees. Internal purities
Direct themselves from what is sensed in cropped mantras as securities
In souls who support but single syllables uttered as their universal sounds.
So, what’s the currency? By definition, art, and all recorded moments despise
Realities beyond the theatre of the mind,
and in the end, expose themselves as lies.
…painting by Philip Harris…