Proem to Dharma Gypsy

The accomplished whole echoes feat in mazes of never calm.
The stratosphere wide continuing dissonance of that attainable.
A gypsy dances the midnight hour and writes until his fingers cry red.
Dramatic realpolitik operas and spiritual indelibility; fellow atrophy and God.
Lay tongue to contemporary man's dispute with universal concurrence.
Doors of perception magnify relevance; our time as spiritual being comes close.

The red covers the paper and trickles down the side of his arm in lengthy vibration.
Sound is formed, a thick gelatin blob of atmospheric time travel.
A palate of absurdity met in recycled light.
Drips from washed out tunnels of dharma subconscious in streaks of nostalgia.
The gypsy furls his legs in rainbow knots, and the lotus hums.
We are reentering the universe, a path in which holiness engraves ritual.

We seek passage to realms of evolutionary counterpoint.
We seek acceptance into our dreams from our dreams.
We seek that of nature which immaculates God.
A time not