I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.

I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.

I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.

my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
       c  
          u
             r  
          v  
        e  
          s  
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.

there are days i long for
the allure of philosophy.
writing.
a less personal affair,
but only to a degree.

rather than what i do.

such responsibility, to hold
another's fragile mental
stability within the palm
of my hand!

i am no healer, i do not
offer cures. no. the
gravitation i hold
is simply an

   e  
        c    
             h
                  o

of everything
which shall always
be nothing more than
the reverberation of my soul.

i am not a poet.
my mother tongue is not
within clever word
play or meter.

i speak the words of the
effervescent
cosmic tapestry
within the singing
of the spheres.

there is a quiet history in
that celestial symphony,
an Edda of instrumental
humming all that
was and shall be.

The moon is my goddess,
her beams lights my path.
In this religion, enlightenment is not a process
but a forever state of mind to have.

The forest will be my church,
roots will be my holy text.
I want trees instead of gravestones
and the wind will listen as I confess.

I will taste the moonlight,
will become one with the goddess.
Since heaven isn't on earth,
and I must have access.

The fluttering curtains. The rough stone wall.
The rhythm of the leaves in concert with the wind chimes.
Clearer.

A fertile space, bombarded by life, love, tragedy.
Nourishing.

The thin film of perspiration responding to the warm tea.
The cup cooling to ambient.
Connected.

An ageing body shaped by rich diverse experience.
A backward glance to a faraway waning peak.
Acceptance.

Countless journeys guiding me here.
Tomorrows destinations biased by passion and purpose.
Mystery, uncertainty, yet infinite clarity bound together.
An unconscious knowing, omnipresent.
Contentment.

It has to have a little bounce to it
I gotta put another ounce to it
My rhythm and flow
Make you dig it and glow
Hope you dig in and grow
Like Diglet to Dugtrio
I’m still evolving me though
I am a dissolving ego
A problem-solving Neo
I have broke free from the Matrix
Still my mind plays wicked tricks
But now I see these traps and ticks
All these flaws I can soon fix
As I climb ever higher
Atop my funeral pyre
No fear that I’ll expire
So my soul sits ever lighter

Floating and flowing without ever knowing
Gloating and showing without ever going
Bloating and slowing our repetitive rowing
Coating and mowing instead of regrowing

We drift downstream as if in a dream
Sometimes we glint, sometimes we gleam
Other times we pay a toll
Yet we are never in control

We can struggle against the currents
Test the limits of our endurance
Or we can learn to selflessly flow
We can begin to gracefully let go