The art of the tolling of the bell.
He picked up the old bell,
and dusted it off with the sleeve of his shirt-
the shirt was bright blue, and had bright stripes.
The fish swam in the ocean. They were candy-colored,
and their gills opened and closed.
Pottery was not the same as poetry.
It was in the same, whether you begin to lose or not.
Your eyes are bluer than your sleeves.
Your face is shaped in the grassy grain.
You see in the sunshine; and dwell in the rain.
Everything is nocturnal. We are one and the same.
A shadow swirls around and comes back;
it returns and nothing is more sacred than what it lasts.
The frustration of moving things around and about-
are shattered like fingerprints, and move to shout.
In houses, we figure we aren't moving like lions.
Everyone thinks they are one and the same.
We gain everything and then nothing we gain.
Like fluid waters in the end it's the same.
It's not what we wanted it to be.
It's not who we are. It's simplicity.
The water drops in a bucket from somewhere above.
The minnows are like magic, and shoot up like fingers.