In the wake of the moment
There comes a rekindling
Of forms and cores The dawn of times, A rebirth.
Calling to life thought lost Memories buried deep Underneath layers of self-consciousness
Suppression of the nature of the being
Perhaps, a silencing of the being itself.
To what end? To succumb into the portrait of the expected An expectation of the being Not as the universe would have wanted Instead, an image formed by layers of colored varnish.
Of years long and hard
Centuries of artists’ “perfection”
A stroke of the bush each time
Both of the genius and mundane
Accumulated across centuries.
Each stroke birthing defining moments
Internalized patterns The artists maneuvering Not one, but all of humanity Assigned outlines and shadows.
Sometimes bold strokes Other times, faint pencil lines
Intertwined colors and patterns
Diverging shapes and intersecting angles
Circles at tangent, angles merged.
What death takes births life So is the rebirth The death of one gives life to another
The trigger pulled Calling to life subsumed rage.
Not Remembered, Not Forgotten
As the last breath was drawn
So were thousands released Into the very creation that lived
Alive but buried Submerged undeath pelting memories.
Forgotten but thriving Dictating the journey Bringing back to life At every turn, each intersection Like dried seed when the rains came.
Different but aligned Unique but maybe not The dynamism of its existence
Manifested in diverse ways
Waiting for the beckoning.
The day and second of reckoning Some, all too familiar Others with strokes of ingenuity In the end, they are all the same In the beginning they were all the same.
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