In Itself

October 22, 2011
By Anonymous

A mother's blood in the child in her self in the words she says she's not afraid to fight the fear she made mountains our of molehills dug in mountains of debris, every piece a mountain in its self made self aware and a when with every time in place and every place in time and space within a touch inside time and space enough for all of us are tucked within the world inside us without boundary, and without us we have only me and you, not u and s, and u's and eyes which put what is outside our head in it, and mouths to put what is inside it out of money, the money of outsider's insides, sides within the sides of a fight picking fights with sides of a coin tossed, tossing thrower's hands to the sky tossing rowers to dry land, landing on rocks in the water in stone cold lava birthed from heat and pressure inside this ball thrown through the stars that fall into its night and painted by its star artists, surrounded by art that they, starry-eyed, partly copy and partly make, created beings created to create children made by mothers who did not design their face face making their mother's face straight for the death wake, waking up to a world of sleepers dreaming to awake in the morning, mourning the wait, wading through mornings waiting to dream again, and again, never without end, never ending forevers for every end is a beginning and every beginning an end
in itself.

The author's comments:
I want to be a poet like Escher and Mobius,
who pulled the insides out
and put the underneath over us.

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