The Dark Bark
Here on earth the mind (in its ultimate human celebration with brain) finds water, the earliest of globalizers from the ancient comets, ubiquitous, vigorous in its flowing, that falls so natural, going unnoticed even as distant dusts settle around hazy old sunsets, that brings fragrance from perfumed leaves--the soft fleshy ones--from the balmy reaches of jungles, and that, by its longevity of tradition runs to invigorate the diversity of unseen birthing triages(D.O.U.B.T.). Jungle streams dripping over her own lush filled body in teenage exuberance as if to suggest that the human embedded minds(T.H.E.M), with their sheer moments of expectant pleasure, permission for hours of self indulgence not granted to the lower life forms of earth and their assignment of quotas, don't matter, not really. Yes it is, the intimate spaces of the mind allow irresistible ideas to conjure up in an instant, as if delightment were the law of the land surrounded with water just everywhere, as hierarchical imbued real secrecy of notables(H.E.R._S.O.N.). Human minds see water as commodity, never as narcissistic, most comfortable in its pure state, the body of nature herself screaming for the one indulgence she requires for her maternal comfort; the whole body covered with fragrance of hidden flowers, soft luscious ferns, balmy oils of the dark bark of massive tropical jungles. Yes, water has no need to remember the time that passed through her fingers--as humans must--she has no corporate lineage to rise and interrupt; misty, watery clouds, her own glass ceiling. In truth, with craftsman's honor, and once the humans have finally gone (with their brains or minds or whatever), this jungle, her waters, will flow through timelessness with their most crowning moment, a treasure trove, genes, sewn as meticulously as a knitter's proud possession.
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