Stung Eye
Stung Eye

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Ceci n'est pas une pipe

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Backwards in time across the zones we use to section up our world.
So is time really distance through space? Yes and no.

It�s more like the fusion of distance and memory.
Saw some old friends, they asked: "Hey do you remember me?"

Played amongst the wise old cedars.
Fed my mind from the top like old fashion bird feeders.

I�m back and I�m almost at a loss for words.

Either this city has changed or else I have: Most likely both.
The only thing permanent is impermanence.

If you suffer, it is not because things are impermanent.
It is because you believe things are not.

We like to make believe that we are individuals.
How dare you choose to blind your third eye when we thrive on the inner visuals?

Cupped hands form an hourglass when filled with sand

More sand falls than can be caught
It passes through fingers, leaving my stomach in knots

A friend comments:

"Those sand grains were once stones, see?
They are now finer for having known thee."

Isn't it amazing how positive spins bring grins?
It isn't all that phasing; now causative sins sting skin

It's the sun's sin that now stings this idle skin

Sitting on a beach made from all these used up memories
This grain's ancestor was granite - That one came from emery

How many years will pass until no one remembers me?
I'll be great-great-grandpa 'what's-his-name' hung from the family tree.

Like a stone pulled down by gravity through the water of a stream
I have certain goals that call me so loudly that I can't see the forest for the screams

You could say that I'm a seeker. You could say I'm building steam.
I see time as man's invention. (Is this really all a dream?)



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