Welcome.
Enjoy a few moments of silence and we'll begin.
Taking a deep breath,
Allow yourself to be right here and right now.
Taking a deep breath,
Allow yourself to be right here and right now.
Fates whisper.
Always do the best that you can,
But remember that the truth is truer than a movie flowing so seamlessly through me and you in this rendezvous that we call the real me and you.
Are we free,
You and me?
Or is she smiling ever so softly,
Looking at and through us thoughtfully that ancient goddess of every moment's alchemy,
Doing her due diligence upon this moment ever so quietly?
Destiny.
Her lips primped with fate's lipstick,
So quickly she changes shades,
Saying what should be said.
So impossibly these words fly quietly through our minds and come alive as if we indeed willed them to be.
But as they go and we're given a moment's pause,
We see through memory a playful trace of that fateful lipstick so primped and placed,
A gentle voice so poised with every cue,
Whispering through me and you,
Choice.
Are we dead?
If every moment becomes anew,
Then wouldn't it be truly some serene serendipity that I am still the same me and you are still the same you?
What sort of thing is this ancient cup and string,
Bringing to us clues and heliotrope hues of future past and present do's,
Only to arrive at life's end,
Trying so hard to keep what cannot be kept in hand?
So without effort that sand falls past the infant's grasp,
Down into forever's endless basket where death's empty gaze conveys its patient waiting.
From everything to nothing,
We are just constantly changing,
An occasional something,
Never here nor there,
Yet always where there is a memory.
Would Father Time still elect to lend us his spectacles,
Knowing full well that we may say fate's whisper is but a music box he's playing?
Or would we stay faithful to our lady's game and keep on saying we are free for every moment that she's waiting,
Quill in hand debating whether or not to author our next great daydream?
What would you do if you knew that hitherto this script's been already written?
From crib to crypt,
So cryptically creeping through life's corridors,
Like hieroglyphs we see them,
The puzzle pieces drift below a sea of sans serif mundane chatter,
Lackadaisically hazed in lackluster banter about matter that really never really mattered.
What if you could hold a moment in your hand so that grand Rubik's Cube would reveal to you what you will do to who and with whom?
Would you hear that owl whoing,
Perched upon your roof so coyly cueing you to sleuth that music box's tune?
What then would we do if we knew even just a few of that fateful script so crisply whispered to those primped and pretty lips?
Somewhere there is a beach so bare its space swallows all of your cares.
Tides rise and die beside your feet as endless beads of sand and surf so gently meet.
Hardly ever repeating these temporal greetings,
Washed away and cast out for another day.
So fleeting these bubbles leave us feeling.
Countless these moments own us,
Yet we still show up to sit and surf the days away because life,
As they say,
Is that music box that's playing.
And so long as the music plays,
We hysterically pray that we may stay to use our cup and string another day to hear that fateful voice and what it has to say.
