you, with the asking

you're asking me with presence,

what I can't answer with words.

your stream of past experience 

runs through me.

I read that in brail, 

with a heartfelt mind,

for I am blindsided by your request.

how to be in the form of answers,

as if a dialogue is in the demand.

our time like this

is not a dimension for comforting.

your past is all but ashes, 

spread across the land of your present concern.

at best, I am a breeze to spread them,

in admitting to you,

that true sacred, 

takes no form.

for you appear to me,

as this smoldering, 

with laser focus from your eyes,

transcendent but yet unrealized.

you want poignancy as a mind-fill,

as if roadkill is, 

as self-evidence,

dances above, over its own lessons learned.

for you, the habits gleaned from experience

only generate unconscious wings,

to fly away, 

far above and soon beyond, 

as if now, you, 

as the spirit of the wiser.

you are the disguise of yourself,

using the mask of time to hide behind.

but I can read where stream-beds were,

before their flourish came and went.

I can feel for tree stumps,

buried in the vast of cemeteries, 

that lie transfixed as root sculptures, 

passing as non-relevants, 

now underground.

but you, you are a fever of yourself,

without the heat of anger or resentment.

you have a mastery of self as witness.

you ask of life, 

for something more,

more than human kindling, 

for its warmth.

you want to hear that choir,

made of diamonds in the rough.

you want to be at the feet of now

without experience being, 

the nature of its presence.

you want what is as mystery, 

now unraveled,

for what is shine, 

as being at its source.

you bait with the worm of live questioning,

as if this victimhood is your lucky charm.

but I see into source,

before it had a direction of purpose,

even before it had any means.

I know where you come from within me.

I am there before experience as a distraction.

you remind me of that,

even though all dressed up as questioning,

making experience, once again,

as if it runs through my veins.

ah yes,

let us toast, 

to time and space,

to our sense of preoccupancy,

to the truth beyond self as consciousness.

where our restfulness 

is all of vibrancy, 

as the void, 

the vast, 

and the oneness, 

but, not in vain . . .