Upon my Throne

I, like you, do sit, when I poo. A man rehearsed in the art of cleansing with one hand, dominant. My practice never made perfect, with thanks to my daily variations, and unstructured consumption. What beauty, therein, lies.

     What was yesterdays fuel becomes the morning's delivery. A ceremony of worship to the plentiful nutrients these sowed seeds supply. Forces within, toiling autonomously, charged by only their instinct to survive, destroy, transform, and create. Is it not the duty of life to fulfil it's destiny of prolonging what is deemed inevitable. For, it's conclusion: unavoidable, devastating, yet the catalyst for evolution, change, and progress.

      An unripe crop hangs shining with the sun. Dew frosting in the low heat of the morn. It's service yet to be utilised. Potential unrealised. Processes must take place before it's true beauty can come to fruition. So for each new day that passes, the nectar within becomes sweeter, it's flesh more supple and bright. An invitation one such as myself would be a fool to decline. I pick, I eat, we evolve.

      There are moments like these that present themselves each moment the sun creeps the skies. Opportunities for enrichment and nourishment. It is a man of no hope that allows time alone, the great taste of its offerings. By which sword must we fall; the one of unmoving stone, rigid in its place, making no impression but the one it was born with. Or the one made of light, illuminating every corner, casting its radiance for all who perceive, to perceive in their own making. Like swords, we sharpen with the stroke of the clock. Its effectiveness, determined by the tools, or moments, we grasp.

      None before me, the man like you, have pondered how functions of the body are that of the mind and soul. Yet, within us, transformity, change, a metamorphosis, screams to us, simple and complex, when we take our throne.