I go to a place within.
it makes words shiver to represent.
a mirror would glance discreetly away.
in a new-town sense, with no friends.
the familiar ceramics of habit seem odd.
my body in hand-me-down old clothes.
I don’t know what language I would speak
but a presence is in ‘thought’ composure.
whoever is back there comes through.
being a person seems natural but odd.
this could be a matrix kind of life.
say my lines, see what’s up, existence.
caring has a buoyancy kind of feel.
it hits me that we are all grandly on the same ride,
a common notion shared in shadow, unsaid.
I don’t have a fall-back position as in aware.
there is a sanctity in this momentary existence.
I could die here or carry on, is much the same,
not so much at affect but of a simple bloom.
I could come into kindness and love
as well as stand alone in this silence.
my breath, as breathing, is riding shotgun.
next moments to come are in the garden,
where my eyes are embracing,
with hands attending.
nature is deliberating the universe around me
as I settle, in sense and composure . . .
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