what might be got
with
the wrong inhibitions 
gone,
while all the others
align, go on and
thrive in
and around an
existence,
lay waste to the 
superstitious hanger-bys and
passer-ons,
and these wicked inner
thinkings,
that the stillness starts in
stitching?

what might 
be,
said some soul
with days weighed
down
in unconscious contemplation,
whose denial, and
self-affliction of
defeat,
or at least its ism,
so stifles schisms while
negotiating,
keeping vast, enough,
the chasms dividing,
confounding 
the 
path
this mortal caste has
towards
enlightenment?

what might?
says she,
unencumbered
graciously granting the day a
greeting,
and, off, then,
to casting out,
and 
constructing the idols
of
neural network quandaries,
rewired
into tales of glory,
or,
hand-crafted visuals whose
story
stems
from the unrefined imaginative,
conceived and expertly 
condensed 
through all that inexperience 
and, so, bestows a
moral
otherwise, unseen. 

what might?
anything,
it somehow still 
seems.