Our ability to notice that which is around us, above us or below,
Is dramatically affected by our own expectations.
Any object not to scale or inconsistent with the row we hoe,
Will likely be ignored, a figment of the imagination.

How much more so if the entity is mystical in nature.
The Holy Spirit frequenting our bedside at the break of day,
The whisperings of mindfulness that move us to obey,
The muses that inspire, producing magical displays.

Synchronized, in tone with the melody and beat,
The lyrist and the poet, the comedian and concert player,
The scientist, the novelist, the painter and the athlete
All rely upon the mind beyond to fabricate their wares.

When asked how they’d connected to that outside inspiration,
A few profess a Zen proclivity for letting go.
Some say it’s holding on to heritage, one’s own origination.
In truth there is no formula, no effectual way to know.

Yet the one behind the mind has a fixed determination:
To enable any soul with inner sense to catch a glimmer
Of the harmony and rhythm, a Dizzy contemplation,
Then to motivate the sharing of a never gleaned realism.