the folk singer spills another meal.
Food is good for thought
and all the singers want a chanceto mend a melody without stating the obvious.
Rote is rotting like a demension of inner peace
that longs to celebrate the eternal.
The wheel of seasons brought to the next,
over and over again like trees dropping fruit.
One hand makes a sound,
even the smallest atom screams
for the sake of the others.
Some binds are harder than softer.
The collisions come and go,
each occasion a chance to start anew.
Why barter with a repeat engagement?
Suffer the specter of other useless pleasures.
Rote is the method behind the madness.
That's why the mad return to their dementia.
It is easier to be familiar with the misshapen,
than to parody meaning out of random passion.
Bound together like beads on a string,
the time to learn is something new rendered old.
Repeat the following mantra:
Tarry not until I come, the beginning has no end.
