When the dusts settle from the last wheel
and the sickle moon stoops on the bamboo grove
the dead rise in the whispers of the southern breeze.

You may hear them splashing the canal's water
beneath the hazed halo of one quarter
by nocturne music of barn owl and crickets
in lights of glowworms from darkest thickets.

If you stop on the Rotwood Bridge
can hear them sing in gay abandon
though we're now all dead old spirits
the night can't make us anymore forlorn.

The twin moon may from the ripples broken
beckon you and if your spirit awakens
take a plunge for a joyous down go
amid cheers from the watery hollow.

I have three words in my throat,
One that I cannot set free,
Though its passionate suffering
Devours my spirit,
If I say it it would flame
The untamed hearts,
Fell the spirits,
But it stands at the tip
Of my tongue.
This is why I am unworthy,
Each maddening breath I cannot
Say it,
Until I see the Man,
His blood coursing out of His body,
The spit at His feet,
The hate at thrown at His Spirit,
Until I swallow the hurt,
Until I tear and let it all go,
This is who I am,
This is my faith,
I must recognize the Truth,
Thankyou Christ!!
I fall to my knees as I let
The faith resurgent in me,
I know that I know,
And so bled the Lamb.

Verily we are suspended
to one another invisibly threaded
gold spun, finely woven
we breathe the air of summer
silken petaled, softly subtle
through these woods treading sun dappled
we come to rest, in a rosy heaven
lose the world of whirling much too fast
to gain the moment, lose the future and the past.

I lost the quintessence
of my rainbow beaded being
along with
the calligraphic indian feather pen.

The blood from my arteries
are replaced with black ink on paper.
The ingenuity of it all.
How much I despise it
the unoriginality ?

Not feeling me in my own words.