Click Bait

the greatest architect of all
the tallest church spire built to date
points to the sky, the heavens’ loft
where nervous angels fidget, wait

come and rest your weary mind
let impulse self-propelled, abate
when all is said and done you still
jump up to go, you’re always late

when resting, things aren’t getting done
this thought that teases as we wait
there’s always something in the queue
a deadline looming, what’s the date?

always one thing more to do
or entertain, a great debate
to argue, or some plan you made
this train of thought and all its freight

but everything you’ve seen and heard
the flowers smelled, the apples ate
one vast and empty matrix full
of clicks on shiny mental bait


attachment and its object rise
together in a spacious state
and dissipate as one together
where early is the same as late

the gap between before and later
where everything appears innate
defies the yearning grip of mind
so how you like them apples, mate?

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