I sit and stare at the plastic That has just became A shrivled bit on anger A certain drop of pain This bag of ramen noodles Scattered on the ground Is waste for an unfortunate other Yet makes a humble sound Speak to me ramen Make your humble sound And wait for another day Just please don't skip town.
Ah, and this too. All is alive with the magic. The pain of trusting and being stabbed, of opening to love and being let down... even this plastic wrapper lies silent and distant, not seeing your fire. Consume the noodles of yourself like galaxies beyond compare. Rage, rage against sleep in your waking to all that is. Gnash and toss like salad and gaseous cloud; exploding to start it all over again in this quest for your God-self.
I will descend to meet you in this abyss if that is where you are, or rise with you as bodies of light on ancient wings. Just call, if you feel nothing but platitudes and know I seek but to be a polished mirror. Much love, my brother.
