We travel the same paths

As our ancestors did,

Tricking ourselves into

Believing we’re doing

Something better,

Standing on the shoulders

Of their acccomplishments

And patting ourselves on

The back, boy, we’ve come

So far by our bootstraps,

But we don’t see the rest of

The bodies burried below.

We circumnavigate the

Surface, saying we’ve seen

It all, but so few know.

Who among us is ready

To excavate the petrified

Statues in tombs untold?

In this womb we recycle

The stale air of every man,

Woman, and child who has

Passed before us, and give

Ours to the generations

Not yet born, you see,

All our words are stolen,

They were never yours

To breathe. Puzzles

To be pieced together in

Innumerable ways, free

Thought exchange, rebirth

Through interchangeable

Heart parts, subatomic

Patricles in Pollock art.

It is only in the rearranging

Do we craft a new start.

On Tradition

Aus Gott wird man gebor'n, in Christo stirbet man. //////////////// Und in dem heil'gen Geist fängt man zu leben an.


"If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much space." - anonymous




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