Lying on patchy carpets of sandy green,
The day-kissed sky enfolds existence,
In breezes of willowy white fingers,
As for that moment, I live and write.
Reverie broken by mulling disbelief,
I turn my face to the gathering milieau,
Of bellowing seagulls, that clamour to seek,
The cause for my reticient positivity.
The world's orchestra, it's unseen maestro,
Sibilantly provide the fuel and purpose.
Or so they caim, and secure a herd hold
Over sodden skies, flying under the horizon.
The seaspray drives me to different currents,
That lead me through riptides to darkest abyss.
My sea floor is fathoms deeper, it's surface
Scattered with far older thoughts.
The happiness of sheep, in itself,
Contends contentedly with chewing cud.
My happiness is a many wondered thing,
Bright sides offset by darker understanding.
Innocence intrinsic in a baby's smile,
Enters the world to faith's benediction, and
Fundamentalism's twnty-one gun salute,
That slowly seep into that ideal, in stacatto.
Progress is a feverish snail crossing quagmire,
Of blotchy indistinct tragedies, that ferment
On certain curtains that conceal, the world,
The end. So the politicians mote it be.
The dead's bodies have become horses,
That causes whip the mileage out of.
Love is now neatly shelved, orderly labelled,
By the middle-age virgin librarian that is society.
Rebels without cause strive for resonance,
Floundering in individual meaning's deep pond.
Those who come after, looking at us through glass,
Are future's illusions regarding dead pasts.
That which lies beyond a grasping mind,
Further hindered by self's choking smog,
Is relegated to the gates of nothingness,
Which are thought to open, but never do.
So smile, laugh and love, in ignorance-
We are the punchline of a cosmic joke.
And yet, I am Jonathan Livingstone,
Seagull, and so much more.
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