got a condo in manhattan
but it's empty unless i want to be
cold in the winter
and alone; comfortable

used to call an old flame up around that
area and just vibe
no words, pure concentration on
the movements of our energies

and how they connect to the stars
above or maybe we were just high
out of our minds and being warm
next to each other watching the rain

was something we both could take
home with nostalgic feelings
silence so comforting and numbing

This singing
is a kind of dying,
a kind of birth,
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
who sings with her guitar,
nursing the bedroom
with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
joining the five strings,
a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
who sang with her fingertips
and her eyes were brown
like small birds.
At the cup of her *******
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
mysterious songs of God
that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
had bloomed in her throat
and all that blue
and small pollen
ate into my heart
violent and religious.

What was it that caused physicality to become out of endless void and inky blackness and are we merely a bi-product of its residual harmonic vibration's resilience or do we embody the nature of its kinetic supremacy?  Is intellectual sentience actually the catalyst for the evolution of God or are we merely ephemeral splendor?

Death of unknown
Known stranger
Why does it bring sadness
Known through sight
You never met
Never would have

To reconcile with the fact

Was it the aura
Was it the soul
What was and will remain
The essence of it
What mattered as a whole