the deeply-diverse collective

where we, all in silence, 

beg for the abstract to be our calling.

where all of whispers 

become the weave 

of surface sensory-preoccupation.

I am always in the army of the anonymous 

yet I am the gusto-trust, 

looking for prayer to ignite me.

then, what if drawnness 

is always the tantalizing whisper 

of the unknown,

if orientation is only then 

my method of fiber,

if my living is the eventual consent 

of my soul,

yet if deliverance is a false assumption 

of a here-to-there world,

if take is a self-presumption 

as a false occupancy

and we assume as a collection of separates,

then maybe I am thread 

that does know the feel of cloth,

yet I have motion as my seventh sense,

as if any location is a demand for journey

of mind, of body or of spirit.

and for me to ask, 

assumes there are elements 

of initiation for this.

where my yelling, "leave me alone", 

is a contradiction 

of a compelling personal stance.

but I come from the joy of play 

as the true innocence of heart.

where the guide of glide is really my prayer, 

said with the eyes of gravity, 

of spirit in mind,

where speed, as well as thought,

are both temporal feels,

but only as egocentric sensory adjectives

to distract my being 

from deep-down oneness, 

where we, all in the manifest, 

beg for silence to bless and compose us,

to complete the mend, 

where fractures display,

to full spectrum anoint us

into the lightness of being

and gives us a sense of array as completion,

where oneness knows of itself,

not by the surround 

but by the deeply-diverse 

collective from within . . .