I worship form with all my soul.
When I walk down the street I see forms
molded yet folded in the whirlpool of groups.
Forms fresh and old rising and falling
with the material of it's composition.
Material and form are together a pantheon
from where gods leave and worshippers enter.
In and out, surrender and escape, in an undefined search;
closer and further away from the shape.
Form is a Godless pantheon.
The aesthetic of the shrine
makes you believe that inside
is a God confined
Who in return for your sacrifice
will redeem your mind from that which led you
to the configuration of He
Materials are in the streets waiting for a composition,
to be confined to the lines
of a music sheet.
Materials burst out of mountains
in the eruptions of volcanos
and harden at the bottom of fossil layers.
Form can be a limited God
of Material and Mind,
endowing the bushes with a fire
and the anatomy with an allure
to get to the leviathans to climb a mountain
and enter the frame that promises only its enslavement on the outline
of the shore of structure.
Material is man's alley,
Naked and soft, just part of a whole
A single member of the choir.
Materiel goes on the alter of fire
polished and cut sacrificing to the goal
of an outlinning plan.
Form is no prison
you're confined when your outside
and the mistake is in your sculpted eyes
pointing to a prism whose rainbows deny the original white light.
Form is Mind and Mind is Me
I stand before Forms everyday watching as if
it's a tombstone with words to tell the by passer that which it frames,
or perhaps like an architectural feat
telling the story of the house
and the people you'll meet
But Form doesn't go so far
It tricks and licks your cheek
while stroking your back
In a storm of adrenaline.
Form is Mind
Mind is Me
formed by material
and materialized by form.