hum me back

I feel stabbed with white noise.

all my senses, grabbing hold of the blade.

I am blind-sighted and touch-starved

in the onrush of this process.

where wounds occur are the talking points

where speech gathers to be spoken.

I am less of the articulate to be said

and more of the sound to be understood.

my inner voice is in a freefall. 

I don't have rain or waterfall 

as a second language.

this is all to vast for tears 

to be scrawled facially. 

I somehow fell into the trust of my senses

as if they became my wardrobe of being.

only to realize I am always nude 

inside my clothes. 

speak to me in a language that can't be said.

touch me in a way 

that embodies and upholds. 

I only have safe passage 

as the oneness of us all,

otherwise I am part of the tapestry 

of the human account.

I become worn and frayed 

as usage is my story.

at least I wanted to be the religion 

of the flying carpet

but that was still an entrapment of usage, not being.

say what I feel back to me 

in a wordless connection.

demystify my notion of separateness 

from the all.

maybe meaning as recognition 

was just a game we all play.

I wanted real to be more then understanding could offer.

I wanted inward rivering as the flow,

not a popsicle taste as if flavor is the answer.

white noise maybe the choir of ascendency,

but it seems 

I have momentarily lost my voice.

please, vibrationally hum me back 

into the fold.

then, once again, 

I will admit to surface,

even though, 

I live for soul . . .