Through dereliction
of logic, the hemispheres
of the brain wash each
other as hands.
Thereby openly conversant
with the heart, as of any
matter.

Unable to close
the gap of distance...
the pilgrim plants
a seed.

A rose screamed ******
******...began smoking
black upon the white ceiling.
The billowy scrawl of a
dispassionate unfoldment...
as its ****** vase soaked
the thorns of last defense.
Freed up in aromatic spasms,
by emotions that felt for
themselves till flat.
There, darkly blessed by
a ****** of shadow and
a dint of light...The Beloved
secured a centerpiece.

Where does the first
breath go?
Does it stream out of
a hospital window,
heralding a being
that's begun again?
Or does it hover
unwaveringly at the
very spot of exhalation?
It's the same air that was
the breath in the lungs
of those present
in the hospital room
prior to your birth.
As it became the breath
of untold lungs henceforth...
it was just that it passed
in your lungs at the moment
of birth.
As it will pass out of your lungs
at the moment of death...
where indeed does breath
go?
Wherever it is needed to
sustain life...it is life
that breathes irrespective
of name.

These fusing
energies create
oceanic fountains,
whose overspray
luminescently beads
the tresses of angels.
The bedazzled Garden
of our concatenation.

Bless this had
moment with
astonishment...
that it may gratefully
enclose holy.
Where from none
the more may
come.

As the emanations
of a saint, in
eternal spring...the
Blue Hyacinth sat.
A fragrance more
home than home.