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I’ve seen that blind devotion many times,
like butterflies drunk on the summer heat
unique and unforgettable in their sincerity,
their earnest devotion to something that
feels like free will on a slope made
slippery by vague memories of being
motionless in the winter and afterwards
finally breaking out of the cocoon of
knowing nothing, being nothing and
feeling so good from the beating of wings,
world and consciousness simultaneously
opening, that small taste of power let
loose around the garden where the
pattern of bright colors was architected
to elicit responses timed to the second,
down to each nuanced flutter, where
emotion is a commodity and motivations
like thirst can be curbed to fit an agenda
without compromising the purity of the
source, the nectar means different things
to different creatures but the need to
care for something and define ourselves
by the things we care about is universal,
open source, almost inviting exploitation,
it’s inevitable, a matter of time run out,
we’ve been found and figured out, what
a thing of mimicked beauty, this illusion
of choice, this capitalism of blissful
ignorance, to be distracted from the big
picture where greed wears no masks
and everything can be collateral if the
price is right, and be seduced instead
by synchronized vibrations of neurons
masterfully plucked like guitar strings
where we are deaf to the song except for
the individual notes we get so caught up
in, our one thousand eyes entranced by
one maddeningly exquisite flower at a
time, fed an airtight script we unwittingly
translate into our own words, stamp with
our own culture, our own hurts, and it
feels like a beloved creation worthy of
sacrifice before we realize what’s
happening, we’ve been infiltrated, and
soon we’re lost in the swarm, each
hexagon in the hive a different story,
half authentic, half synthetic honey
ready for harvesting for purposes beyond
our most vigilant dreams, we’ve hatched
a generation of prejudices and identified
a common enemy, and become the
contagious pain, the parrot voice of
propaganda in twelve dialects and they
start calling us names and pride, finally,
does the rest.

Our shared humanity is the final frontier.

untitled photo
from image bookmarking site Pinterest


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