What's The Matter, Mary Jane?

I have told this before and I will say it again. Every idea that is out there, has already tread these streets, these running roads, has waded through the stinking sewer. Every word, there ever has been, has been spoken, many thousand times, beaten to a pulp over and over again. We twist, expand and curl our lips as infants watch in mute imitation. We wait for the sound that sounds like ours, yet again. Old advise the young, 'Live life to the fullest. Seize the moment. Its now or never.' Lovers write letters, these days emails, long promises overflowing with syllables. Hip hop on your car radio and mine and his and hers and theirs, punctuates traffic. Christmas carols, Amirtavarshini, heavy metal, rap, claptrap, sotto voce, hogwash everywhere. We are less vulnerable, beneath of layers of protective sheets called lyrics, rhymes, adjectives, metaphors, figures of speech, explanations, protests, reiterations, bargains, arguments, prayers, protests, requests, commands. Enlightenment is hours of meditation, of counting breath and feeling an inner light. Inner light looks and feels like two words and ten letters. Where is a minute, a second, even lesser, to see lips and eyes squeezed shut and dancing to the sweetness of honey and sugar? A sunrise of the ocean filles pages in a notebook. The wind pipe's calligraphy is more eloquent than a look of love, a sigh, a tear, a light touch, a nuzzle. In desperation we attempt to capture in words, what we cannot deep within our souls.