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The Poem That Cannot Be named

Everywhere around us there are predators and prey
Way up in the sky above us there is the night which follows day
On the coattails of desiccation there comes a thirst quenching rain
And after a period of sheer elation comes a measurement of pain

On the inside of the outside is the sense of what makes the whole
With the nature to hold up everything is the thing of nothingness at all
So it seems that the day of our birth, happens sometime after death
And that the time when we return to stillness is an aspect of the breath

The definite comes from the infinite
And uniqueness is the same as the same
In our billions of selves there is oneness
As we return to the source again

The patterns in the plants around us
The sequences in the falling rain
The codes with which the nameless designed us
Pop up in everything again and again and again

1 + 1 makes 2
Then 2+1 makes 3
Then 3+2 makes 5
The way we have come to know it to be

5+3 makes 8
Then 8+5, 13
13+8 makes 21
In every being that we have seen

From the grains in the wood that warms us
To the patterns in the wings of the bee
In the prints of the hands that unite us
Is the unnameable, unfathomable, consciousness

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