From Guest writer Zen Gardner
Who Are You, Gypsy Soul?
Upon whom have a stumbled, princess strange and driven?
A channel perhaps, of worlds beyond, and then beyond?
A heart of purified, hot blooded, steaming gold?
No credit or label. It’s not you. Nor am I me. It simply erupts.
That’s how we met. A stumbling in the dark
The inky murky waters we both knew were illusion
Children in the mist, the midst..of?
I don’t know, and really don’t care
How or why no matter, things dissipate, thankfully
Yet the same strange yet not at all, the sirens of truth simply blare
Truth? I laugh. Nothing nears, ‘spite tears and fears
What is just is, just is. It’s only Ising…that’s all
Excavate with worn out tools made for fools
We venture on, and on….and on
Ironic when there is no ending…of anything
Ephemeral illusions flushing round us in which we swim
The ride, ah, the ride! Horrific yet what a twistedly thrilling trip
Can there be no other?
Obviously not. Illusory world here or not
No matter, never mind. We seek and shoot for living kin. Driven.
Flares on the landscape? Cutting nets in the seascape?
We have heart alone to guide us
Alone, beautifully alone. Reason and meaning no bearing
Just is. Hearts throb with the great and wondrous Is – all that matters