the ambassador of the inner churn
lets bloodletting words out of me
the echo of these private murmurs
comes off of the stone canyon walls
protecting the serenity of my soul.
I put down the tracks of wandering
across the dry seabeds of searching.
my lungs fill with consciousness as effort.
self is in bloodlines of dedicated receivership
earnestly searching for the tree of life
as if it were a forest fast approaching.
this awareness functions as wings of carriage.
my pauses for conclusions
provide the gravity of resistance.
this levity may be the tease
of each moment in passage,
as if prayer has a face
unavoidably affronting me.
and I have expectations
of conversation leading to a kiss.
as if the improbable assumption is
that bliss comes from afar
to holy greet me.
when, maybe all my life
is only proof-reading these assumptions
that give me a sense of this as movement
as the illusion of chapter after chapter passage,
as if experience is a measure
and perseverance and focus were my parents
and even now, grandly, looking on.
it seems as if I chose them
for their single-mindedness
in assistant to my spirit’s journey.
as if my living is to honor their intentions
fully addressed.
as if to honor their current absence
by my now towards advancing a presence
for our spirits, in lineage, to align
and oneness to then become . . .
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