Space is as the result of our disunion
the scatter of our holy communion.
Like an accordion
in the bed of
"to be or not to be", red and white
roses
opens in each tick tack
and closes,
withers and blossoms,
when the time opens
the garden's hoses.
A pulsation between death and life
a worm of tune
curling and stretching inside a fife.
To be is the scattering seasons
And not to be
Is the omnipresence of our unity
When we do not sprinkle into reasons.
Not to be is to be free from the strife of our own,
and to be
is to be tackled in strands of your milestone.
To be is to be trapped in the zoo cages
of your bruises and blues
and not to be
is to be unbridled
in the fields free of fences of who and whose
from the chasing a tail
of backward horseshoes.
There is no liberation
only vibration.
No direction, neither game nor home run
only on the other side of the coin,
existence and nonexistence join,
as one.
