Dwelling in my everyday

It becomes hard to say

How exactly I feel

About life raw and real.

Then when I reflect

I tend to neglect

Moments in time

Which are purely sublime.

They become a thing,

Lose their ring,

No longer truth,

But detached and aloof;

A part of reality

But not necessarily

Essential to my Being,

Which is so used to fleeing.

Can I capture the intention

By poetic invention?

Not thinking as I go

But rather letting it flow…

Although it’s thought I want to illicit,

Capturing experience, making it explicit.

No dogma, no theory,

So I can see things clearly,

That’s phenomenology:

A type of quality

That I need to get used to

In order to explore you.


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