Currents

It's an everlasting construct --

the constant lust for something unattainable.

We compare ourselves to structures

built from the projects of our neural architects.

A thick and nettled river travels throughout

our soul and surges into our mind's eye

building temporary soldiers

of hungry ghosts who are feeding on the blind.

Thoughts control the sun --

water shifting surfaces masking it as progression

all the while, and addiction is built to the refracted light.

Forever comparing ourselves to those in bloom.

Only when we accept nature's pattern of growth

will we be free of the relative vice.

Toxic dissatisfaction,

poison-dripping forward motion.

Currents pull all directions whispers in the dark.

Welcome the process.

Bury me in my belt clad in white.

One seed bears but one root.

(One seed bears but one root:

the root grows as it always has)

Dogma unforgotten,

Progress has just one constant.

While we're blind without the light,

we feed in the darkness to satisfaction.

The ever-glow of the setting sun is fucking raw

it may still be rising.

Gone is the lie that we put onto ourselves, in a brand of growing credence we can follow where the currents go.

Bury me in my belt clad in white.