Rosenbush Café

Yearning

Savor cerulean blue enigma satiates my desire for voyages beyond this dimension of three to advanced levels of consciousness in anticipation of the corporeal no longer relevant. Days pass away like shadows of sand; infinite and adroitly washed ashore on a far-away beach of compunction.

Metamorphosing into Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Vitruvian Man, fusing corporeal with yearnings of cerebral states of mind; tripping headlong across thresholds of momentary microscopic microcosms of interminable esthetics of feigned cleverness.

Undistinguished from billions of anonymous sentient carbon-based quintessence cluttering the inner beauty transcendent measurement lengthwise and lifelessness waits, with the patience of eons, at the twenty fifth hour of the twenty first day, gladly tastes drams of hemlock; wilted flowers that never planted their seeds of knowledge and finally content they must scatter thoroughly dissembled atomic structures of neurons, axons and dendrites across vast, everlasting consciousness of space-less, time-less, unrestricted freedom’s energy fields to blossom in distant galaxies.

Goddess of Kismet

Goddess of Nature

Goddess of the Muse

Goddess of the Godlessly Aging Gamma Ray Bursts and Solar Winds of Love Lost

Scrutinizing selfish devotions and selfless portentousness in the acceptance of the culmination sooner than later and with blissful disparagement, the cosmos proclaims unity in wondrous chaos and legerdemain, into bright lights of unfettered sunshine and clouds of providence without fear; that most wasteful of emotions, relentlessly draining spirits, diluting chakras and shredding best intentions into an uncommon mass of confusion, is an illusion.

Disregard fear…

…it always finds another host.

Epitaphs written in futility as meager reminders of pitiless life forms afraid to disembody and explore the philosophical galactic beyond self without reminders of loathsome importance, there is no need to enter unknown realms with trepidation for all that is unidentified is left behind.

Do not mourn at graves; they are empty.

Embrace life instead.

No records in the dissident sepulcher; deeds of good and evil are unadorned wisps of repetition, testimony’s achievements for they are in the past and the present is the indisputable future sought and lost. Replenish a tiny portion with corporal residue carried on the four winds to the ends of the earth and into the stratosphere; irradiated, reformulated and mono-reprocessed for stereo as another vessel of tabula rasa will be filled with the love that cannot be extinguished from the fires of uncertainty.

henry b. rosenbush