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Running the race,
With the racist,
Playing the tune,
With the bassist.
Everyone has their stand,
When peace tastes so bland,
We can't see the colored rainbow,
Or the whiteness of the sand.
The red of the Indian,
Or yellow of the East,
The western part of the globe,
Is where I always act like me.
Teach me to teach,
So I don't struggle while I speak,
I'll walk until I've run,
I'll sit on a softer seat.
I'll hear until I've listened,
I'll look until I see,
Bliss will be all mine,
As I touch a craggy beach.
Smell is another adventure,
For you, for you, you see,
When it migrates to your nose,
It could bring nasal harmony.
Taste is from the tongue,
It can help you talk for fun,
What a sense it is,
You cannot share it with someone.
Completing this story,
Must be done in a hurry,
Words don't last long.
Sentences can get blurry.
So open your mouth,
And just say ah!
Smell the flowers,
Painted by Renoir,
Taste the truth of a delicious fruit,
Touch the lives of a fleeting youth.
Hear the calling,
It's very clear,
It comes out fast,
And through the ear,
Finally, see all that you can see,
Open your eyes,
Of pure mystery.

©1999-2021 Steve Bujanow

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Copyright©1999-2021 Steve Bujanow, Neocortex. All Rights Reserved.

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