POEM: How Does It Awe End?

Sow ponderous are wee
The of
Never two be the same
As one
Whichever becoming
Created in won mine
Weather mirror mortals
Or I am parish-able being
A quest in during
Too haves
And halve knots
Regarding the spirit of what matters
Neither helled fast
Nor celestially slowed buy
And aft-er each claiming
Stern up trouble
Figuring the other’s sale is rigged
Know cents in fallowing
What is billed of star board
Oar all is port
As solid grounds a mast
Exceeded only by wind
Assumptions and renunciations
From the back spew and affront row
A mist
The sow called
Only wandering
How does it end

I am prone to venture into the dangerous arena of speculation on the of in efface of and the idle juggernaut of .  This poem is about , that and much more.  I view as a primary of what I would term or .  I find awe uplifting.  Dissecting rarely leaves still living.  In do coarse, most arguments about God or any sublime devolve into reductive thinking and defensive emotional stances, regardless of one’s belief in common ground or spaces.  I am skeptical of any view of humans as solely common ground.  I am also skeptical of the races of men to lay claim to the sublime spaciousness that is .  Awe is elusive.  The spirit is like the wind, as we know not where it comes from or where it goes.  I suppose that it would not be an unwarranted characterization to say the awe is my .  Of course, awe and wonder are the enemy and antidote to dogmas, in this eat world wee in habit.  Sow, this poem is a bout finding a place where awe does not end, where awe is not exiled from our of the moment.  May you ask wise as you wander, and as you find awe that you are seeking, make more of it.

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