I am hundreds of years old of myself.
time is a closet queen of exaggeration.
the tumbleweeds of words
are across the desert of my mind.
staring is its own kind of wisdom
for listening when spoken to.
animation is a stillness whispering.
perspective has a vacancy to it.
worth does not come from conclusions
but the living-in to its happening.
longing draws me into aliveness.
sacred exists before sensory awareness absorbs.
to know of, is a secondary perseverance to live by.
feel hardly has a self of distinction
but feel comes to be
from connection to it all.
know of reality as survival (?),
I gave up on self long ago
to be one with the universe privately.
experience is only a hand-me-down existence.
I am saved from identity’s purge.
I come through you before words
as if understanding is a knock at that door.
soul always hears but may vaguely remember . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment