A Delicate Journey

It is a delicate journey,
Treading softly on a paper-thin, fabric bridge
Overlooking the hazy valleys of the mind.

I see a blank canvas in the sky
Full of signposts,
Bright signals re-directing outwards into the
Like glimmering thought beams transfixed in the past,
Among the present,

Even now celibate bodies grow into the apparatus of experience,
Yet the five lucky symbolizers remain outside of their domain.

The great black question mark of embodied time,
We still swim in this black puddle.
Being nothing; what does it mean?

Well worn-out words
Always fail to apprehend
The question we long to live in unafraid.

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