My imagination tends to the fantastical and bizarre,, the last escapade featuring a subterranean cavern , a bonfire, a purple cartoon dragon, and a circle of dancing Trollie dolls. It was alot of fun.

Thank you Jon for the Inspiration.

I’m not a great fan of the “surreal”, but the end gave this one perspective. Excellent job.

Cheers
Steve

Greg, I’m going to pin that one to the wall where I can see it every day.

The Muses of Mu
usually wind up in a MuSeum
and Mused upon therein,
while Mu remains unrealized

The teaching of the insentient:
if you try to grasp it, you will miss it—
it has no form.
If you try to let it go, you cannot separate from it—
it is not formless.
Subtle and wondrously inconceivable,
the Muse constantly reveals the mysterious teachings
of the ten thousand things.
Dogen300

An after-thought
Anagram of unrealized = neutralized
Seum From Arabic سم‎ (samm, “venom, poison”)
the Anagram of Muse

Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea.

These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent.

Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse.

And in a dream old Denis said, “Paint that woman there, for she is the queen of the world…and she is angered by all this…”, we standing in water up to our knees.

I use to fish here back when the caretaker asked us to leave the garden. I was alone then, the only one. It was a good spot to fish. I had drifted in from the galaxy next door, with the horde not too far behind me. I had travelled so far and had slept for a thousand years through that lightless drift. And something gained in a sleep. A measure of respect for the infinity.

She and I were lovers from the start, refugees fleeing from a war fought a million years ago. While the nit pickers searched for reasons to abolish joy. Players look you in the eye when they lie with such a bold face. Believing themselves as truth. Those were the times that started that dull ache in the back of my head, that won’t ever leave now.

And prophets stand on every street corner and scream foul, and Buddha is now rebranded into a more colloquial type, and the slogan is “What we think we might become.”

The mediterranean was a valley back then, filled with the most unusual of wonders. Trees reached high, in what could make a city from their bodies. And burley men planted crops of rich food sown from sacks woven of gold, on the bottom of that future sea. And then the water came and sent them all to paradise on the back of their God.

The moon is full tonight, all dressed up and ready for the insane. I watch you put layers of pretense on yourself. One by one, in hope of covering, what I feel is the best in you. They told you lies and you believed them, and you can’t break the habit now.

Soon I will slip into the dark again, and hide away into the long, long night. And fly the endless voyage, and in that time forgetting that I am this. And wake up all fresh, and new, starlight will fall on me for the first time, and I will have been reborn, again…