In peace, return each breath
as if it were
a sacred mala bead recited
across the trance of time.
There is a fine weave
from this interface called life.
All appears discursive, symbolic
but is not.
We harvest as if divided
from the it of itself.
All our affirmations of separateness
only scratch to provide surface
to our connectedness reflected.
We dishonor by eventfulness
to keep ourselves afloat in dismay.
There is a secret language.
It has no words.
Understanding falls short to say.
It lives without time.
We are one constant voice of it.
It is harmonic without embrace.
It has no edges and no frame.
There is no audience possible.
Awareness of it passes through us
without notice towards an outcome.
Its essence is without objectification.
Even sacredness disrobes of itself,
to be . . .
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