If I consent to joy, where would the insight of my troubles go?

Would they vaporize and vanish till they seek the blood of new naive lives ripe for experience?

Would I consent to torrential seas to slosh and wake the cocoon in my heart, sweep away the embers and coals flurried in my furnace till I speak with ghost plumes in my breath?



Where do these days go, where do they unfold?



What shield carries the ego, what contains something that so readily disintegrates?

If we speak at city walls, do our words really ferry beyond, forming clay into the mold we choose?

If we seek the union, where can we break the tides that run underground, between our sounds we echo?

Take this step into me, and we'll walk forever dreaming, absolved from time we'll rest in our bed of flowers.



What will the river lead us to, will we be the story told?



If these words have shown a fragment of what I'm known to be, could I hope to slave the strip mine of my soul?

The mountain billows the shards of my identity out into the glassy atmosphere.

I will excavate a piece for you, the piece inmost ready to move from it's quilted earth.

A patterned rock that holds no jewels that gleam falsely in it's mother sun's light.

It'll simply be deepest rock for which you to hold and keep