Everything I could not yet tell you, flooded my mind.
So easily you put on your front, but the eyes cannot lie.
I could see your fear, not of me, not of you, not of us,
But that deep fear.

The growing, unsettling, feeling ,
that the stories we've been told
of how all of this unfolds.
Just distractions from a process,
which is much more visceral.

That our minds are the culprits,
as much as any "greater unknown"
Yet there is a part within us
that grows.
That knows,

That which is the observer,
to all phenomenon.

Its impulse,
the truth,
lays silent,
buried under years -
of brutal habituated programming.