Freeform Creation

Friend drummer, breathe of the thoughts sweet life sends.
Soak in the images artists have lain bare before us.
See the graphic Drakkar man working out cold sweats?
He stretches mind ejections of passion to all.
Sacred fear, so truthfully warped;
He grapples with the need to give.
Weird words slosh forth, rocketed.
Oh, to soar!
Wanting supererogate fantasy –
Unending desire.
What juggling of flesh will fill beyond expectation?
Writing steady, now slowing, fighting finding a rhythm.
Then, he converts; a religion in the rhythm –
“Oh, to become a monk
in this self-defined church,” he mutters.

In thought and act, know that he stirs creation.
What is your past life? Can you remember the beat and the vigorous rhythm that ignited you?
In the blackness, tools made you in extreme delicacy – then with growth, Change – worse things can happen.
Hair cut with blunt blades,
Skin sloughed with sea sponge,
Bones blocked in place with wood clamps.
Well crafted of the tools of the moon and the earth and, yet,
Removed from me.