The Perfect Knife

The Spirit adheres to no mold.
It clings to no regiment or legislation.
It goes where it goes, 
Flowing
Down and out into a nameless sea. 
.
It swallows you whole.
.
Because what is on the cusp of our collective horizon has no precedence or premonition.
.
It requires we leave our well rehearsed lines for those auctioneers of by gone estates, peddling memorabilia for the keepers of ghosts, historians, peeling paint from small-town posterity.
.
This is the unauthorized translation of life.
.
This is the perfect knife.
The spirit cuts down to the bone.
.
And if your rules do not lead to freedom, I ask, where do they lead us at all?
Perhaps to murals of painted oceans peeling from faded walls.
.
Are you willing to be misunderstood to go where I’m leading?
Because where the path disappears
there is no precedence or premonition.
.
This is the unauthorized version of life.
.
The spirit cuts down to the bone.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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