In the fine woods in the nearest place to swamp eden
where the forest and swap vegetation merge worshipping each other
Mossing where sunlight couldn´t reach
causing a strange mystical friction upon the surrounding
The niave outsider made his way into this world
a clumsy insect into the flower
He cast his line into the swamp ponds alluring waters
Only to be cast himself high out above the water
And there constantly floating about
the intoxicated dragonfly
As if acquired by nature
then echoed out the way it intended
The hunter fisher or gatherer became an animal to serve it
a soldier in it´s army, a word in it´s language
Over and under the swamps dwelled a people so obsessed by tradition
it was hardly fathomable they be able to survive
meeting at their long dimlit tables in their dens
rodent like eyes checking for rapport only sufacing to inspect their past
as if to check if they actually had an origin and not a fable concocted
Museums were as churches
An ancient empty feeling touches the skin, falling like tattered spider web
the chambers broad and haunted, the dust alive somehow
The door arches x ray machines exposing our inner intention
in front of us, a blatant shield using our own malice to fearfully trick our minds
Passing by the subterranean laboratories and temples
Under huge overbearing hardwoods
Their roots curving the subtle lip like entries which give the enterer no head space
almost as a warning that those who do not bow as they descend
will injure the very part of the body that creates thought
The end of this world comes as the midafternoon sun exposes the shade
dappled light speaking to the ground warning it of the final minutes
Humans base desires protruding out of them like neon signs
and blocking them from getting into those labs and temples
And so hastening their departure for the lackluster cities of the common
But it was a great day, the tickle of existance could be felt
seltsam and exquisite
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