Something:
Flying Crooked
(his honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
He has – who knows as well as I? -
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and there by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.
There are no more generalists. Attempts to understand Everything seem futile as the amount of information is ever increasing. Knowledge expanding. Where is wisdom. What is intelligence. How will this work.
So perhaps I was born in the wrong era. Classic copout statement.
I was born in this time. In this now. And I should live for it. Not like a long swept dream, left out by most and appearing only in crinkle tissue papered books.
This I rhyme a second word. This I rhyme on time. This I rhyme a tad absurd. This I rhyme just fine.
“He who never lives for the moment, never lives. So what of you?”
This I rhyme once more today. This a little rhyme I play. This I rhyme a lot more strange. This a rhyme about to change.
A Nothing:
I want to tell you a story. A grand tale of waving emotions and overcoats of thought. A story of odd people and strange deeds. Of kindness and unexpected warmth. Of fires in rained-on cabins and the rainy seasons in hell. I want to make you laugh and cry and pull your hair in frustration in the same breath. To coo and sigh and dream in admiration. I want to make you feel. But I have no fictitious story.
I have this.
This Bit-Flip Syndrome. This ever changing state.
sudokita
