It was kind of like
Walking in to a movie
Three generations were present
The father of the family
Age 78 or so sat by the table
He spoke his truth
To the pagan witch
And us, we just listened.

Your house spoke of love
It spoke of a tribe and a home
It said "ownership
Is for those who claim it"
For better or for worse
In awe I watched the result
Of your undying love
To your laid wife.

With all my power I drew
Calligraphies of your walls
Set a field of whatever it is
That souls set fields of.
I whispered words of comfort
In to it's foundation
And secrets of love and hope
In to this air.

I learned deeper compassion
And Tao Mastership
But you, you may have taught me
Something money can't buy:
Your unyielding devotion.
By your window sat two girls
Marveling at what has come to pass
In your lineage and how peaceful you made it.

We never knew it really existed.
But then I suppose that
That which we believe to be true
Will come to manifest in it's own time.
Your unyielding faith has come to prevail.
There's a smile and a warmth
As I hold this esoteric present in my palms.

All you need to do, is believe it.

The galaxy is white—
a seamless pulp,
where we drain inks on.
On unscribbled portions
or in between monochrome lines.

The blots and smears,
and the succession of strokes and curves
are the stellar projections
to aesthetic calligraphies.

We did not know
that the stars were in our hands,
or at the tip
of whatever writing instrument we held.

We did not listen to the sounds
of galaxies crumpled by the hand,
or of stars burned to ashes by flames.
These sounds, after all,
remain inaudible in space,
so should all hatred and criticism.

Some believe that
some squander,
and that some conserve
the fluid of immortal witnesses
in a universe of astral imprisonment
that bears prejudice and judgment,
but boundless freedom.

A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy.
Varying durations of immortality,
but immortality nevertheless.

We have this peculiar practice, both of us. We partake in the delight of nothing.
We are two walls being vandalized. And then we are the same walls being photographed
by onlookers. And we become the complicated eye of the strangers. We become the beauty
they try to subscribe to in strange calligraphies, bent caricatures, and flagrant peripatetics.
  We have the most outlandish of penchants, especially when nothing happens while
            everything happens. Forget the sidereal zeroes of this equation. We are one
  unanswerable phenomenon tractioned by a willing cohesion. Put into mouth what fingers
    cannot do. The one in pursuit is divided by blame and the other a fugitive.
              Mind takes space when absence does its duty. There is ease in accepting
  that a body impaled in a moment may bear no gravity.
                                                                             We have disparaging repetitions.
   We invest in invented lives. We know not much from here but we know
                      the end it tries to exact in itself. The silence teems in that probability:
   all static, intrinsic, and jarring. We both know a fine day when it happens.
                         Lurking sounds of hermetic space brought to life by informed choices.
                Clinking of bottles and the silver of fish on the platter. A book stolen
from a place where everything is organized – strangely enough, the disarray people
          are capable of with their hands is not preempted
                        by a custodian. We have godless moments. Say for example, this body
   houses a river and on its flaxen waters we have already let go of everything.
                 Soft waters gnaw flesh and shadow off immediate impulses.
                                 We have bizarre practices, both of us, separate.
      Desire is dispersal. Weathering the diaspora is grace.
              We both are gilded by attendance, and in rooms fat with people we are
                                marauders of space together with them – our lives so unobstructed,
            free, and proliferating. Why can’t we house ourselves? Why can’t we cling
                 like ivy to walls of stone, melancholy to walls of blood?
                                          We have this peculiar practice, both of us. Separate. No warnings,
   no conveyed messages, no alarms. To be unmoved in moving, to be moving
                           in stasis.

Shades of purple
Come out easily
Purple displays strength well known
Those types of arms that feel like home

She writes in cursive
Unique calligraphies
They translate in depth, you sink
Leagues and oceans upon paper and ink

Fights the wild things
They mistake her for one of their own
And though untamed she may be
She stays vigil, her own she oversees

Shade always seems the same
A book in volumes under lock and key
If you read what bled through you might worry, so
She gives you only what you need to know

Always purple
Different hues now and then
She will always be your solid ground
Even when her world is crumbling ‘round