I am the highway. Hungry. Waiting for the atoms shed by your passage. Wanting purpose. Streaming down me you trace a line of presence down my back. I am caressed and calmed.
I am the spit encrusted microphone on the stage of the ancient club, feeling the words of the youth as they are pushed through me. A presence feeling every person’s tired pains recycled over time. Returning to the truth they are searching for, the explanation of themselves.
I call to you wanting more, wanting life. Wanting the imperfect memories that your matter affords you.
You never hear.
Never listen.
Don’t know to care.
I am the unborn soul. Waiting for life, wanting to partake of the patterns which you create. These “ideas” that you have.
My energy can become your muse.
Can I tempt you?
Can I make you want me?
Become your drug, your high, your entertainment?
Make of me a larger pattern!
please…
just let me be.