Balance, repetition,
Composition, mirrors.

Most of all the world is a place
Where parts of wholes are described
Within an overarching paradigm of clarity,
And accuracy,
The context of which makes possible
An underlying sense of the way it all fits together
Despite our collective tendency not to conceive of it as such.

But then again, the world without end
Is a place where souls are combined,
But with an overbearing feeling of disparity,
Disorderliness,
To ignore it is impossible
Without getting oneself
Into all kinds of trouble

Despite one's best intentions
Not to get entangled
With it so much.

And meanwhile the statues are bleeding green,
And others are saying things
Much better than we ever could,
As the quiet become suddenly verbose.

And the hail is heralding the size of nickels,
And the street corners are gnashing together
Like the gears inside the head
Of some omniscient engineer,

And downward flows the garnered wisdom
That has never died.

When finally we opened the box
We couldn't find any rules.
Our heads were reeling with a glut of possibilities,
Contingencies,
But with ever increasing faith
We decided to go ahead and just ignore them
Despite tremendous pressure
To capitulate and fade.

So instead we went ahead
To fabricate a catalog
Of unstable elements, and modicums,
And particles
With non-zero total strangeness
For brief moments which amount
To nothing more than tiny fragments
Of a finger snap.

And meanwhile we're furiously sleeping green,
And the map has started tearing along its
Creases due to overuse,
When, in reality, it's never needed folds.

And the air's withholding the sound
Of a twelve-string,
And our heads are approaching a density
Reminiscent of the infinite connectivity
Of the center of the sun,
And therein lies the garnered wisdom
That has never died.

Expectation leads to disappointment.
If you don't expect something big,
Huge and exciting,
Usually uh, I don't know,
It's just not as, yeah.