streaming out of bedrock

so much of experience has washed over me.

I've become the bedrock

rather than the streaming.

I stare at the sky 

through the shimmering of me,

with stillness in a steadfastness.

all emotion is the wash in passing.

for a deeper truth exists, 

more than this is refreshing.

experience was to be

the potion of liquidity enhancing.

but the story told in this flow

does not tell the truth of me, 

set in the steadfast of consciousness pretending.

I am the face beneath the streaming.

yet nothing passing moves me 

from this, my groundedness.

nothing of liquidity meets my bedrock of soul.

nothing passing speaks the truth out of me.

I wanted for this deep to anchor me,

but experience is only the all, in the passing.

maybe I would have wanted to be 

a wellspring coming into and from a deep pool.

there, to know of myself

before the darkness liquid-surfacing.

to then have the light of day kiss my rootedness.

and then, take me back to source, 

beyond what daylight hearing offers.

to lay with me in secret at the pool bottom

and know me from undergroundness.

yes, all the sinuous and intricacy

of the moving forces of then that so define me,

without these lesser fates of human states.

I am a long time coming

before superficial surface entered as me.

I don't have a mind for now

that doesn't ache for my true identity.

I can be of here for now,

if the me of then 

is clearly honored coming forth.

I wear a riverbed face well.

but I am the stream of hidden tears 

that are never seen as such.

I pool a presence seen as surface presenting

but never for the heartfelt of acknowledgment. 

that of my beyond inner earth homebound underground.

I want to lay down deep again

in that level of hidden intimacy ongoing,

in my destiny before surface bound.

I am liquid sacred of emotion

but not ever to be surface satisfied, 

unless evaporatively bound.

I come from the smolder in the dark earth veins

rather than the surface fresh face of pool delight.

meet me down there,

where no words occur,

where feel is consummately present without surface,

ever flowing.

and all that is honorable 

is dedicated to being in and of that flow.

my person is of such carriage

but I have no words to speak my truth.

here, I exist as a prop feather 

in an altogether other's world.

yet my tonal still sings me,

but my liquidity story-tells in song.

some may come to sip

but no one admits to that of my deeper thirst. 

as if of that sipping doesn't quench.

I am of a liquidity 

that cannot find for the quench made real.

I surface for the life of me.

this wandering keeps me paradoxically close,

as never so far away.

my human self is in inner dialogue,

wanting for the expression of being 

of my liquidity from the deep 

to be expressing me beyond time.

and I look out of these as my eyes expressing,

for what can't find a way into words.

where we weep, as humans,

is meant to be 

from beyond what appears as human offered.

my timeless meets in yours.

we carry on in the underground sacred.

and no one, posing as human,

is other wise . . .