Discharged in Dull Matter
Manufactured into the material world
In caged dimension to dwell,
The child screams in primordial rage
Discharged in dull matter
Upon this screaming orb
Amidst the apparent madness
Of the falling suns.
Soft drops the day's nearest clock,
Impervious to touch
It mocks our solid senses
With it's roaring core.
But the child knows by instinct
That which will take a lifetime to relearn
And a death to reclaim-
That the sun is a light in temporary repose
In this strange land of viewpoints
Into which the child has barged
In a bag of stuff
Formed for the purpose of that baby-talk, knowledge-
Where all is distinction,
All is related,
All, with precision,
Is coded and dated.
Thin filament of light-life stuff
Encased, with a soul outside
In FM. tuner style
To frolic in and out
Of a lifetime already spent
Reduced to a pulse of frequency
In this dense state of being.