More About the Meaning of Life

At First, I raged for Freedom

Let us go then, you and I,
Into the evening spread across skies
Multitudes of simultaneous cries

Consciousness reborn
How many billion souls?
Does it take to make up a galaxy?
Like a work of art

We’ll never know
Well come and go, live and die
Into the room where women give birth

Where lovers visit, to serve evolution
The questions never answered
Of a million indecisive moments…

In a lifetime, that passes
As quickly as the predictable
Trail of thoughts, analytics of choice

Let us go then, you and I,
To be the only person
We could have been

The toast and the tea
The smiles and the tears
Do I dare, to dare, to be?

Into the thongs, singular yet identical
Unique and totally related
Human and trapped
In probability, function, duty, environment
Conditioned to be a certain way.

Pictured, https://www.facebook.com/ChloeBennet, Chloe Bennet (“Skye”).

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chloe_Bennet)

The Spiritual Body of a Poem

To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words

And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar

On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems

I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.

AGNES CECILE
https://www.facebook.com/agnescecile
http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/gallery/23399055/Featured
https://www.youtube.com/user/agnescecile
https://www.facebook.com/SilviaPelissero

I’ve Watched Myself Perform Small Nobilities

When I look around for proof
That I am alive, epistemology aside
I am a living metaphysics scattered

In the wind, dreams bought by books
There is no defragmenting this love
It’s the self-search of sheltered legacies
*
And I become a candidate
For door to door sustenance
Looking for proof that I exist

In these empty faces, these cynics with luggage
Perhaps I should be practicing not having
Because possession, isn’t in the cards

I’m no longer waiting, I’m simply
Pressing my ears and eyes into everything
Hoping that I don’t abandon hope too easily
*
I won’t rush death a bunch of dust
But leave what I am, stuck with you.