I can’t ‘out’ my all,
through what experience offers.
I can’t ‘it’ my being completely
into mass and form.
my think is but a teacup
served to sip at.
my feel has no edges,
no boundaries and not layered.
I as my ‘I’ is but a speck-tattoo
rendering of itself.
language indoctrinates me
to be of separate sense and cause
but I am not of meaning,
but more so of sound as that tone.
and that tone is atmosphere,
shade, mass and desire.
I am the urge of light
as to what I speak by being.
there is no space empty
but by our claims of that.
we are dimensions short
of conscious participation.
I have no harbor,
no sea, no separateness of we,
but we as one,
are also not separate,
but of a vastiness
and consciousness seeking . . .
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