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What is left when all knowledge is taken,
beyond the words learned in books
and the stories told to us
by a culture
that’s existence is meant to absorb us.
Set down with no template
no pre-conceived notions to stack experience
on top of, tottering until it may fall.
Shattering a glass lid
through which we have seen everything
not knowing it  was even there.

Just there
with breath going, a chest gently heaving
a pleasant feeling of cool air at the tip of one’s nose.
Warm on your skin, as a playful force tosses your hair
shoving you slightly off-balance, as you raise your arms
believing you can fly, like those graceful creatures
silhouetted against the bluish white canopy
that doesn’t end.
Rushes of stimulation surround your head, as it changes in intensity and tone,
sometimes it carries your attention, as you are led by its melodic beauty
to twirl upwards, while surprised your feet remain behind
holding on to the patch of color and texture
so it won’t all go away.
Sometimes it screeches as if this world is being torn apart,
in instinct covering the sides of your head
to protect all from destruction, to remain as whole
as the rough and hard creatures that are silent,
strong and waiting,
Alive, with a rhythmic wave whenever the coolness brushes through.

The strangest of all resides within,
with all disappeared, as wiped clean by the passing of warmth
from all experience.
As if you have been covered
by a dark being, scaring away everything but the heaving of your chest
pumping out a puff of air to startle yourself into life.
But still, between each death and rebirth
there is a sound that beckons not from out
but from within.
It does not exist, but it is there
knowing, that it is me.
Without place or body
it stays within.
And so this starts
to think about ….
and the garden is gone.


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