when your soul conviction
is becoming a personal lament,
when the exude of precious moments
runs and hides themselves away,
when one's forbidden heart
lives like a freezing glacier,
when the sunlight of living
gives shadows as a meaningful script,
when knowing is a needed antiseptic,
rather than a useful aphrodisiac,
when the handling of bothersome
is more useful than the skillset of caress,
send the plague of that consciousness,
my way.
may they ravage on
all that thrives on me.
leave me bare to the bones.
giving me the gift
of a skeletal inward smile
and no mirror of outer reflection,
so that I know of me
from the making in each moment.
where refrain and reflection
have lost their poise to pose.
I'll then be the drum-skin
of reverberation's call.
I will ascend
within the sound of the wind,
yet no breeze will carry me astray.
I will then not be the force in its movement,
but only the consciousness of its flow . . .
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