By what artful means inspired do you live your life?
Or are you lived instead by prehistoric terrors
poorly filtered through a modern sieve?
Oh, I know what the fearmongers on Fomo Street
want to sell you.
Can you hear them prowling door to door,
shaking their electric tamborines and crying wolf?
O Brother, don’t fall for their fever pitch.
They would have you pay in blood and plasma
for their fistful of dirty shadows…
Don’t answer their manic knocking.
Let pure space blooming around a seed of self-compassion
be your response to their treacherous trade.
Resume your simple song, guided by robin and mourning dove.
Listen, no matter how confused you have become
you can start again; stand again
in that original playground where school began,
the blacktop opening out to the edge of campus
the woods opening beyond the edge
and behind the woods the whole world waiting
just waiting for you to test your wings
against the changemaking wind.
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