Sacred 4/16/15

I am drawn towards the submissive implications of what is sacred. 

And when it finds me, it rushes through me but what actually happens to me, 

I cannot truly identify. 

For it has no pronouncement of gravity but I am lifted. 

It is perfume-like expansion without a fragrance identified. 

I am peaking but without a mountaintop presence or view. 

I am being bathed in a tub made up of a thousand hands 

of those who have come together invisibly to shore me and shaped by their grasp, 

this pool of rarity. 

I am now this feeling, lifting me with their collective touch, 

soma-heartfelt and refreshingly spacious, 

timeless and textured without an otherwise context or story. 

I cannot know of these particulars as set in motion. 

All of this sighted, sees the richness composed of nothing. 

I cannot name and am cursed senselessly vacant by this, 

in my effort to give meaning and perspective. 

The stage before me is empty in its fullness. 

What I say to you pours more fully through me

than these words as petals from the bloom can pronounce.

If you feel for it, it comes from within you freshly firsthand.

As a subject by my means, it cannot be objectified. 

Every place you check in me is quietly filled, 

but vacant of audience or after-affect. 

You cannot come closer or be distanced further. 

There is no dimension of this that does not sip of you. 

If I care towards overtures of embrace, 

I have no parts towards accomplishment. 

Swept up in a oneness, I fall into ascension. 

There is no outside to this, holding court or posing. 

I am desperate to lay a claim in my offering. 

This intimacy only knows of you as one with me. 

It is where we are timelessly quantum connected 

and experience is too cumbersome to grasp at this. 

Our time is a conscious attempt at fixture and frame. 

I have no memory to give you or gain 

when sacred comes to me like this . . .