If we stopped calling them flowers and just listened and (just looked and) let them change us forever in that one moment of putting everything down and running fast down the sidewalk and street in an abandon of ectacy and an excess too perfect for its own word and an abundance of joy good enough to eat.
A joy good for ages, that the slow evils themselves even hungered for that cruelty can get off to and grow from that a child’s laughter cares nothing for.
If we just stopped feeling for the churches and instead with them, and why for them, and let shackles break because a shackle is not meant to bond a mind to a heart or rather a heart to a mind or rather a heart to ideas bound to emotions bound to desires and needs bound to weird shapes of roads inside, roads that don’t take you anywhere or at least not where you mean to go because meaning is given afterwards but the best kind is given in advance. Shackles are meant for release, thats the irony. If we just put down our luggage and bags and dreamt long enough for something better and bigger not to hate what is but to work with it or to just ignore it. If we would throw down the prettiest statues no matter how ancient lest we remember what happened (what did and did anything?) then should we even wish to should there have even been a then if those statues no longer hold a meaning we wish to take or give to new time. If we used the earthiness of a shackle and the glue of the grains to love and if to destroy to do so with the greatest love and if to control to no longer use the word control and to release our old thoughts on control made up of insecurity and fear of the true power that knows a je ne sais quoi beyond its years. A true power mandated by love and interconnection. If we just listened to the flowers and really looked at these odd creatures that occupy too many living room couch patterns but too few intellects or hearts, maybe we would remember what their true names really were, and go beyond any past written in a book, and let these wild creatures of color and glory and the best smells be the books that once read only take us to deeper wisdom, that we might remember that it is us, us who are the flowers here, who are beautiful and pure and are love. That we can leave behind what must be. And in our hearts beating a bit stronger and with our knowledge and vision we can create a new place. We can park our old lives in the parking lots and go somewhere else, walking new roads into an endless blue