Running From the Sands of Time.

 Nice hair! Nice smile! Just give it another

Mile,

Ash you were and ash you’ll be, maybe that thought will set you free,

Doubtful, but hopeful, as hopeful can be,

Maybe you’ll see, but what does it matter?

Does you no good when your molecules scatter,

But hey, pretend away, as though you’re promised another day,

Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that what they always say?

What have you done? Was your time to now well spent?

When you turn to dust and step to the nether will there be reason to lament?

Cause to repent for things undone? The gift of time wasted? Was it a good run?

Pretender, pretender, whatever will you do? Is the hour late? Your time up? How will they remember you?

Another breath? Another tick on the minute hand?

Will you waste it on useless shit or will you take account and stand?

Unbound Internal.

 ‘Man derives meaning from

his work,’ are these my thoughts

or someone else’s?

Does the tree exist merely to produce

oxygen, or is there more to it?

Implied relations out of function imply

specified functions by design.

Design for what? To what end? Material

To break free into immaterial?

To some higher state of consciousness?

Are all of these questions even useful?

The implication of human nature shows a need to make sense of things,

To classify, measure, and recognize in order to see reality’s strings,

Threads that bind one to another, but something deeper persists, it seems.

With the dawn of consciousness, the songs of history sings,

Seeking higher meaning, soaring with angel wings,

But is there something unified pulling universal strings?

Are any of these even original to me? Alienated and trudging along, what does it mean to be free?

To fully immerse in the grand experiment? To seek a way back? To understand? To see?

No one, in limited states, can ever really find the light,

Just endless ideas and concepts, tools groping through the night,

Grass grows, trees breathe, people work their lives and die,

All for naught in the grand scheme of things, 

Perpetuating a societal lie.

There is no God in brick and mortar, no divine in the notions of man,

No immaterial of which to conceive; though implications abound for a master plan...

Wind and Wood.

 How do I capture spirit? How

do I speak to the soul?

How do I enter the sacred?

How do I become once more

whole?

The embers remain smoldering

somewhere among ashes long

spent,

Smoke to sky rising, but slow

and heavy goes the assent,

How do I welcome the hallow?

How do I find the way?

Everything appears so shallow,

Every color, still and gray,

Is there kindling beneath the 

ash?

A way to spark the source in

a flash?

To save the soul from spirit’s

spiraling crash?

How do I find the ground? How

do I find the center?

Knock on the divine gate, await

a welcome to enter...

-End-

(C) D. C. Chapman

Echoes and Shadows.

 There was a time with a vibrant

Sky,

Vibrant, radiant connection, giving

Way to a dull empty lie,

A time, distant, an echo, a shadow

Dancing habitual on a wall,

Grasping for that radiant source, yearning

Before the dissolution of nightfall,

Long missed, that connected radiance,

The truth behind the veil,

Dancing puppets in their equity; all this

Seeming so trivial,

Dull to the radiant brilliance, dull, empty

Sorrow towing the line,

Day in, day out, yearning, desperate, for

Something divine...

-END-

D.C. Chapman

10/12/2020

String Theory.

Felt thin line, in between
All things,
Endless depth beneath a hair’s
Width,
A whole universe in a molecule,

Structures defined, less than
Paper thin,
As above, so below, delving
Deep within,
Colors unrecognized, ripping the
Membrane to synchronize,
Felt, still, seeing beneath,

Multitudes in harmonious resonance,
A symphony beyond imagining,
No words, no conceptions, just falling
Into the depths of less than a hair’s
Width,
No mechanical coherence, just endless
Humming in the symphony of
Existence...
-End-
(C) D.C. Chapman

No Idea.

I don’t know 

Anything,

A puppet on a short tight

String,

No idea how to think, no

Imagination of which to

Speak,

One of the scrolling masses

Pushing that dopamine

Peak...

-END-

D. C. Chapman

4/4/2020

Escaping the Magic Box.

The world spins round and round as the masses hold tight in their boxes of dead trees, looking through holes sealed in with plates of transparent heated sand allowing them to look out, but at what? Their minds overlay the world with words and concepts, attempting to make sense, with no real sense at all.
No world is seen, just the world made, imagination, no real sense at all, not even made from inborn stuff, but pre-packaged programming, doing just what they are told, accepting just what they are told to accept, despite reality, despite what is in front of their eyes, for those have been beamed through a magic box of talking heads feeding manufactured ‘facts’ and ‘charts’ and ‘numbers’ based on ‘real things,’ no sense at all.

Infotainment is entertainment, all of it shoving pre-packaged mentalities, personalities, and values down the throats of the masses, cupping their mouths and forcing them to swallow whatever it is they are selling that particular News Cycle.
When attractive pretty faces are revealed for the empty soulless, mindless, ditzy tools they are, grasping for attention, or they might surely fade away to nothing, but nothing they are if their usefulness has no purpose.
All the sheep are in their pens, scanning endless old memes as their days and nights consist of nothing new under the sun, mindless, soulless, no original thought of their own, just what they are told to think, how they are told to behave, what they are told to value, doing what they are told to do. They have no minds, they have no hearts, they have no soul. Enjoying your dopamine distraction today?

-END-
D. C. Chapman
4/4/2020