Overhead the earth is a miracle of magnitude.
Removed from the immediate youth of all that is
Embedded in the flesh, narrowed to the compass;
If not for imagination our minds would trap us
Trapped to the hungers
and to the lusts
The anathema.

And at every stage each age is closer to the character of being.
Before we adulterate
life with complex relations
children play,
no thought to the concrete,
The world is the world and the world is will
and imagination.

Possibility, unscathed.
Children free to imagine,
The world they dream.
It could couldn’t it?

One Sunday we children, playing in the fields,
running after gazelle
Our house travelled with light through the horizon,
The world awoke to jaded somethingness,
and we lived innocent
nothingness before that time.

Never twice the same.
On the kitchen a giggle signed the privacy.
Shared, not to be shared
again. Like a nod between men.
Full of meaning and companionship as any nod can be.
We giggled like children.

How many freedoms for the mystic and the rational man,
If only in the innermost part of the
Mind; at some level the sense of another
Disconnected from the occupation of body,
Connected only with imagination.
And we would be forgiven for thinking that beyond lies nothing but space.

It is the essence of all humans.
In a world that none can acquiesce, can
we forget and live on. The moment of belonging
is the moment of genuine imagination.
But for those moments those worlds were the worlds there;
between us, our minds, our worlds and us.

It is that world. It was the fact of experience that meant it.
From mystical to concrete we live, with pleasure disguised as opiate
The fallacy
To little thought in nothing;
we continue to live,
life remains between us,
between concrete and abstract,
it is this world. Embedded we are,
And embodied we become.