Of This…



Transforms me into something

Much more magnificent and sparkling

Than both my objective

And subjective realities,




Like whistling breeze

On a cold, cloudy autumn eve,

Blows into me the spirit

that you and I,

Despite owning an abundance of what most want

and some work towards;

Have experienced a dearth of,

In many eras of our lives.



Is a life in its own right,

A ritual in its own doing: the knowing,

The knowing of itself

 in its purest existence,

A yearning for more,

And at the same time

A still gratitude for the known:

the sure.




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