In a perpetual state of waiting;
Caught in some moment of anticipation,
As if I were
Careening on the edge of a pit,
Or turning the lock on some threshold,
Sprawled out and gasping on eternity's desktop.
Nonetheless,
Waiting.
Holding a voluntary breath,
And commanding God's air to yield
To me and my benighted demands.
Waiting for all of these foreign faces to seem familiar.
Waiting for the influx.
Whatever it takes,
Wherever it takes me.

You'll never believe this
but,
I drank from God's flask the other day.

Yeah,
Convinced that it was half full
Of conscientiousness.
Of hope, or passion, or honesty,
or somethingworthgivingashitabout.
For it had once appeared to many,
A beautiful and grand canteen,
Forged of liquid silver.

And as I allowed the contents to inwardly surge,
I realized that it had plunged into the same carnal vessel
From whence it came,
And the lining of my body had been holding the ancient linings of other bodies,
Reincarnate.

Romantic,
If that's the way you wanna slice it.

But
There is a recipe for such rapture,
And it's been written on pages much less holy than the Bible--
On the coffee stained clipboards of chemists
And the meticulous manuscripts of mathematicians.
It's made out of the same **** that everything else is made of:
Out of the same force that makes you float when you sit in the dead sea,
Out of your body's sweat after a hard day's work,
Out of the blood in your veins.

Salt.
All of it, everything, everyone,
Salt.

Dissolved, crystallized, harvested, ingested,
Redissolved, recrystallized, and the cycle repeated.