Writing Polemic of Paradise [E]

[Guest Copycatalyst]

I

Life is a polemic of paradise.
Full to the brim of value!
Though its value, we circumcise--
Though its value, we don't use--
To be our own wings.

Life is a shock of shackles
That are too free--
Life is a rock of rhymes
We sculpt--often too blind,
To be only dust.

Life is a celebration paradigm,
Endless suffering is to find!
Which makes us Gods of our time--
The seconds passing to the end's ride,
To be only a tide.

Life is a polemic of paradise.
A shock of shackles.
A celebration paradigm.
Life's value is inestimable
Our values of it are estimable
And that, there--is our crime.

Which murders our moments
To have to ceaselessly rewind:
But eventually our knives of ignorance--
They shall grind!
Against the repetitions of our mistakes,
And sparks of abyss
Shall resound around
To cease to rewind
Swallowing our spirit's mist--
And sparks of abyss
Shall own our will's wrist.

But it is not too late,
My will-o'-the-wisp!
It is not too late,
To really, truly, exist.
It is not too late--
Do not resist!
Take your own will,
By its wrist!
It's not too late--
To stop the sparks
Of the abyss!

II

Did we ever consider. . .that we're in a cell of paradise? A sentence of paradise which we make into slavery, of our own ununderstanding of this life, and even of what we do in it? That the bars are only our inability to realize the immense potential we have in this life? Or that life is the celebration of paradise? We have no idea how beautiful our existence is, and how much we murder it by never giving our lives as much of our all as possible. . .Or how much we murder the quality of our lives for the quantities of our ignorance. . .Or how much we absolutely take it for granted. . .and how deep our inability to[i] let go[/i]. . .and be here, at paradise found. . .[i]To be in this moment and to let it be as it is, not as we rustle it to not be[/i], goes.

III

a cell of paradise
keys for wings
dreams of a sailor
here is paradise found!
detested as merely God's cloud~
dressed up in a shroud. . .
our love of God worn so proud!
our hate of our humanness so loud!

though i'll love the bars i preen,
wear the feathers of terrestrial angels--
have the shackling tail--
of our own illusory nails,
stabbed and filed so fine!

man--endlessly--crucifies!
a cell of paradise
a shell of paradise
as a turtle wanders to the sea:
as I go, while others don't, to be--