the garden of google
Waiting for Google to upload
the moment passes,
words vanish
as quickly as they had appeared
You with a ready pen,
paper the divine prostitute
laying bare awaiting your inscription
upon her soul.
You with a ready pen
able to pluck the mythical fruit as it
dances between this world, and the one
the eye won’t see.
For fear of recognizing
the nakedness that clothes us
and Eden within our mist.
You with a ready pen
who hears a voice
whispering beyond our internal monologue
“Eden is with-in you, seize your searching”
while I wait for Google to upload
reply back
“Yes this is a garden but where is the gardener”
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