your grey, brown, black, golden, green, blue eyes, that connect without being alike.
The contortion of everything learned without causing any pain.
To coincide in a coincidence,
where everyone around is part of the act.
And the friction of the motion,
pumps the blood to the fingers faster than the ink.
It’s never been a secret, the meaning of life
if you accept the present time.
The cardinal’s pitch, the song of the finch,
the train working hard, the car running fast;
tires splash rainwater around,
to slip between the greens and reflourish the ground.
Syncronocity is right here, is right here, is right here.