It is

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This is like and as the
The sound of dewdrops humming
Like, while being,
The consummate understanding
Between the empyreal expanse of the sky
And the gathered fabric of the Water.
It is
The slipping under hiss
Of gasping ecstasy
Beneath the cool demeanor
Of apathetic understanding.
It is somewhere,
Existing apart,
A floating transparency
Imputing itself into our being.
It is,
All and one
The final
Idea, soft,
And powerful,
Sweeping under
Sweeping over,
Resting on the cusp
Of the sill
Of Dawn,
Blooming forth
As the mighty bud,
To encompass all.
It is the mountain,
Humbling itself
To exist as the
Translucid idea
Bound and distorted
In the mass
Of the minds of humanity.
It is
The quake,
The silent roar,
Of a mighty thunder.
It is the perfect ring
Where one in three
Inhale the expiation
Of their sole beings.
It is that,
We beat against the walls of
Drawing pictures in the air
Of absurdity
Called reason.
It is that which demands
Absolute recognition.
It is none other and
No less.
We rage against and fall
To our nest of boiling blood
In nets of black
Called philosophical understanding
And rational outlooks.
It is
In the complete embrace
And deferential submission
The satiation of man’s beating desire.
It is like and as
The sound of dewdrops humming.





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