the unbound-bond

now trust me, like a name
shame, blame, fame—all are the same,
plain to sight; with a good game,
you make it to the end of a thought
—let’s see what is hid.

meaning to look back, I stand still,
resolute, firm, unwavering, tall—
where in there, do you see “wrong”,
we can play games, but to win is
to be true.

the landscape reads far and wide here,
the skies unobstructed by invention:
now, truth is with connection. and
we begin where we begin. all paths
are here

true. communication is of man,
his wondrous folly, his notion
of measure, of quantity, of plan,
true—but to her, discordant—
woman,

he goes again—when “she” is what he
called, to love, born again, out of heart
and mind, it is how he learned of it, his
first sighting of who he was to another, honestly, in love.

no measure, then, is greater than—
here and there—than by the heart
beats—the good starts and heat
generated by a man. who will
receive, then,

most duly, as reason to please, and
to bear a duty, singly—or so singingly,—
to see ease and be abrupt, shut-
ting away doubt. for, as for me,
I can see

none could read about me, or
seek around for my service,
and promise ready return—
good economies—how fast
interest builds;

she and I on the same page,
literally—figuratively, turning a ways
in everything—like sun and moon,
round and wound together by destiny—
fate, whatever word

they decide who they are, who’s
for who, when, where, why, for
what reasons and seasons, all
becoming one reason, shining
brightly through

the eyes and the skies we said—
earlier, deserve countenance,
platability, in manner of speech,
to all, high and common, honest,
proud,

without measure, but with manner,
and good method, man and men—
not modes and moods—leaders
of thought, good will and good
aim.

again, without measure, but
with manner, and good method—
and so, we say we connect
to this and that, him and her,
them and those

for, there is reason with you—
why does the scientist then
say communication is key—
abrupt is he without reason,
but

a thought, an inkling of an idea
that—without truth to guide
and set straight to all far and wide—
rests on chance; lifted by romance
and fallen

are those who chose a path—
and loved even—they thought
would never last; it, though,
the heart, burns-bleeds, beats, heals
only by truth

and in the name of it do we begin:
say that a poet can choose where
—anything in the world begins,
for there, we say, the heart
“so sings”—

it means that he builds on feeling,
and with trust, anyone can follow,
hear—fear—love or know, meaning
share life and experience, having
knowledge, undeniable

as the mind is to the hand; proof
will only so far land; language
lets you stretch away and back
a thought, that inkling that idea
and with that beat,

that good heat, that energy,
that wave function, that sound—
o resounds—does he not—
he repeats all but once,
his love

her claim, her fame, her same
blame, shame, lame excuses
for fear and for better or worse—
a single letter—sweet radicals
by the eloquent—

bear the same “trade-mark”, that
same motion to that good notion,
guided by truth and conviction,
manner, and everything else
that was mentioned,

in a single record, that one,
single source, recognized by all,
called merely love, but, being
alive, and provides, both,
sustenance

and for what you vie—the, “for”,
here, and there, duly, because:
cause, is not something you—
or anyone who can cry, at least—
can describe,

that is to say, manners of speech,
and everything else so mentioned,
are not to “supply” but “demand”—
like how “two so true knew who
they loved most”—

it is to say, I speak, we speak,
not to seek, but to find—
in a moment and forever—
peace of body and mind,
good balance

and what I found, was that
a sound works, much like a bound,
yes—but honored reconciliation;
light and dark, lost and found,
is how—

but more why: see, feel, hear it—
a name connects and connections
breed—but I knew this so long ago,
from my soul’s birth—in her eyes—
how time

sets the illusion: each and everything
points to the sky—golden and purple—
with resonating reason—but now—
you can see it—there are only so many,
only so many,

names compared to the the others,
the ones we know not of,
nor have heard of—just, as we say
of blame, or shame, or with good games,
we play;

chastity is pure, true, but constancy
plays a role; as the spotlight guides,
the actor leads, their eyes, where they
wish and how and when, so why not
“why”—

o what cry of man can be
that he is blind, when he
(or she), breathes, hears,
and feels his reason, his
quiet “why”.

so there are so many ways
to speak, there are so many to lie
and belie before they even know it!
such is man, made mad and glad,
so what is he

or what is she—the inspiration
or the spirited away to you—!—
when he does not reserve for himself
and for all, what is most supreme,
so most high:

and honor each thing, each life
and each thing it eyes—be it a letter
or radical sound from within—
say what—ever— it is—
it is that which is plain to sight:

may one see its height and might,
bright, white, through the nights
and good fights, and god-given rights—
I swear, like those given to “ae-m”
and “ai-t”—

how many could there be, what could
they all mean, all those sound-words
you just read—laugh, and either way,
we’re good; you get a number,
you get an idea, but with a word

you get a world, turning—where-
ever, who can say—but turning,
we can say, yearning, we will say,
earning, we’re wont to, know this:
a’thousand of them have made way—

(but just one paved the way.)

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