You are a Persian carpet.
Rolled up together in a bundle,
You are X amount of trillion, gazillion kilometres long, wide and thick.
You do not really have a shape.
You can greet the stars and galaxies,
the cells of grass outside your window, for they are what you are.
Your teachers are the walking trees.
Their thumping roots pushing you
Twirl out! Roll open! Unfold unto the earth!
The more your silk threads lie down against the ground,
the more nerve connections your brain deactivates,
letting go of unnecessary motifs,
excess, haphazard ways of living;
the more you allow yourself to be
a recycling bundle of altering stillness;
an ever changing life force,
momentarily, dipped in humanity.