At the edge of sound
Silence is absolute— for every word spoken, every prayer fervently whispered, and every curse flung out to the Wide is met with the enormity of Silence. It says nothing, yet all sounds arise from it, and all sounds die in it. It says nothing, nothing as all is, as is.
Dreaming through my window
Draw me a picture, I say and yellow streams through the window blinds It paints a golden canvas on my wall with the tail end of your shadow swaying gently in the dipping sun. The picture softens and sharpens as if, I sit in the center of an Eye as it blinks bleary-eyed, dreaming through…
If words could set you free
These black lines on white are not bars, if you look long enough, they are doorways set ajar into Space
The world blurs into shimmering blobs of light, they bubble around me, and one by one they go— pop pop— bursting into the cold, dark night the warmth recedes My toes and fingers are cold I am cold so cold
It’s being shredded apart, torn through the guts, and fed to the hungry, hungry souls. No— they need not concern themselves of what they strip, uproot, and pollute for these skies, these fields will be long after the passing of these hurried feet, and the winds will wrap around the wounds left by these clawed hands, as…
The Verse of Being.
There were four children who wove the wicker of fire that colors every blade of grass, every eye that is. One covered the sky, in her disappearance she sparked secrets that swirled in her silent cauldron And the other, took the form of sea foam, she came and went playfully sprinkling precious salt, sea shells…
I feel you wave in the shadows of dancing leaves, in the shiver of wild sugarcane, in the quiet scuffle under the bushes and the ripple of a still pond I see your white tail slip out the corner of my eye as if shy but always there, asking, Do you remember me? I open my palm…
The autumn rain falls sleepy on crinkled orange, strewn along the path, winding with no certain destination into the far horizon of the setting sun where fire meets fire and the world burns its wildest before the waning sun ushers cold slumber and all is covered in white sound
The word human
I, what is– ‘I’? I call myself the word ‘human’ But, what is human? Not the word but the thing itself? Am I the thing itself? Or that which says this is ‘I’? But, what says ‘I’? What is I? What is I? I, I, I, caw-caw, a crow crows.
Between man and woman
Give she the mantle of the heart before she can wonder Give she all the fire and rain before she can build her ship Give she the bare skin and blood of birth before she can uncover her jewel Give he the weighty hammer and the anvil before his feet can take flight Give he the…