Story

More stations, deviations, contemplations that have no conclusive end
So I walk back to see if there ever was a begin
To see if anything was ever plugged in
Benign it feels strained, pained, drained to the dripping drop
What was the reality of everything I was taught?
Who am I?
What is this?
What is needed to grow?
Which way shall this flow?
I smash the radio cause the stations don't seem to conclude
The words, they elude.
Words, words, words.
Words are finite vines versed and designed to come to an end in fables and myths.
You me, us, we, are an Infinite Divine.
Then what shall we do, take from all these vines that wrap me and you?
Perhaps, perchance, the infinite eternal illuminated fruits that value each vine?

This is a story.

All is a story.

This is a story.

All is a story.

Factful fiction more than words written, spoken verses given, there is still a hope that there is a condition for the individual to realize third eyes, unspoken truths, unwritten words, illumination.

Keys dangle just out of reach.  They are for those who have become taut to teach.
Salivate at salvation, Pavlov's dog in damnation, I know no master but the one within.

Condition critical, blood shot eyes, days cascade into nights.

My heaven hell, yin/yang it all comes back to the place that it is all the same.

This is a story.

All is a story.

We are all travelers here headed to the same place -
In these travels may love be the value, face to learned from the free wheel of infinite possibilities of the endless story.

This is a story.

All is a story.

Words. Words. Words.