I hunt you down,
following the feathering of your flight.
if your eyes had wings,
light would fill the sky.
you would be more than a mood traveler.
there would be a statue of you
in every heart,
knowing its oneness . . . eventually.
burning all of the antimatter
you find by sight.
ash of that kind
feeds the soul.
whatever is the kingdom of traveling,
that you may reign lasts
until rest assured is all sky,
then flying you,
as if home is in carriage of each moment.
what was soft for then,
was disguised lament.
be it the pillar or the pillage,
either feigns its existence
until what lays bare
is out of its metaphorical mental disguise.
keep going on,
until gone arrives,
as if never having left
the wholeness of you.
there is a wisdom of permeation there.
your flight has a sacred seepage to it.
eventually the ocean is of one soul.
the open sky is only a now in passing.
and down to earth in the watching,
tells me the truth,
without a word being said . . .
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