Augmented Reality

 Augmented Reality - Aron Swanson

Siddhartha, nesting in your head

What an honor

for reading the Book of the Dead

Ducking bowing submerging

shallow waters

silently signaling others

the quaint perfection pours

purple covers over their eyes

Gifting each nerve with new sight

They’ve gotten control, become fearless

while daffodils and sun

give up suchness

flowering foliage of a million bright ambassadors

illuminating experience

shine through our eyes

Walking back from heaven

I realize I can do no harm

they must be mistaken

arrest me of murder?

Eyes lifting off jurors mallet

across the sea of faceless peers

across the grainy film of ghastly doings

of which I have no recollection

red pools spilling from broken jaw lines

smashed eyeballs and peeled bones

my expression of pure ecstasy

became a sobering

from nirvanic distate

I plead insanity

Zen to Zen

Zen to Zen

Ooh I echo, along the insides of my head

Watch as I drip through the cataclysm’s spread

Who have I come to know as me?

a second-rate nominee, only meant to sightsee?

blind coincidence teeters at my helm

seems to reason why I overwhelm

I’m not evil nor just, not pious or lust

not a lover or a fighter,

lost of all law, I become much lighter

Lit.

like a good bonfire, I burn

like sewers waster, I churn

Are we not fiction of our own design, you and I?

Are our packaged personalities not as transparent as sky?

They say when become you zen becomes zen

And would not the pale and dull become brighter men?

Well in the midst of this knowledge we still feel dull

With no feeling of serenity’s secret passing lull

Devoted a life to freedom and jaunt

Left with empty desire and want

Nature or nurture how are we played?

Inciting us to this countenance charade

ultimately learning we are passive and weak

even at our highest terrestrial peaks

changing our beliefs day by day,

wondering if from ourselves we can stray.

Randam Blues

Randam blues

His own self abhorred

a blank chalkboard

stares solemnly

the everyday struggle

his decisive juggle

amid play

and things more grim

his loves differ each day

Cruising a haphazardly way

life only a whim

mind never at rest

true self, deeply suppressed

by desire’s choking arrest

A bright man’s wish to be dim

Aron Swanson 1

I am a pencil,
I can glide over paper and create a myriad of things
music, writing, poetry, truth, fiction,
It's all there between me and this empty white sheet
I work better when my head is sharp,
press me too hard and I break
Personally I do nothing,
I just let The Artist work through me.