Where there are dividing lines,
there are also muddy streams.
Lines have trouble dividing mud,
because where they slice,
the mud returns, destroying separation.

The mud however, never stops
the ones at either side
from attempting to scoop the mud
that runs from edge to edge
aspiring to claim the more of it.

Mud is flexible, it takes
the shape of what grips it
and slips away silently once
an opening reveals itself.
Mud is not water, but it’s hard to hold.

Mud is not water, it has substance,
carrying with it the remnants
of things it passed before,
allowing remnants to help define
its character, its identity and formulation.

And yet, man is ever determined
to define mud, stabbing it with
various gilded crosses, spilling
blood of stars and crescent moons
so that mud will finally find the truth.

The trouble is, mud is neither
cross, nor star, nor moon. Mud
simmers beneath them all and is made
up of them and stardust too; so mud
might dally in one realm or another,

but any change that mud might
make is neither here nor there,
it carries with it twigs and tales
from just about everywhere. The change
in mud is not a conversion. It is immersion.

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