Maybe the rich get richer because the poor don't know
they're wealthy. In other words, you dream what you believe you are.
A saint is just a saint because the saint believes that all
are saints. Although belief is just a lyrical red herring here.
There's more to do with love than threads the hook of words.
The source may be unknown and its intent has manifest the grid
but love is this electric trip fantastic power building
bones and moving blood to fill the mind with just enough imagination
to perceive itself reflected in a trembling aspen on a
precipice revealing empty space and a hidden river valley.
It's not the thought I-am I am but something more
experiential like this love that’s always moving one,
and if I follow it intently, I will see I am the source.
There's a certain hydrologic logic to it all.
The light evaporates the sea where wind is guiding clouds
upon the continent and rain is falling on the peaks
which tumble over mountainsides informing rivers of their
depth and leading them as love returning to the sea.
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