What
is this volt—my soul; and what is this force—my
life?
Ever our art, a Christian fever, river to soul; and
dance
the mystics, a seismic Yogi; and trek the fields,
a
silent voice. I love you in disguise, two steps shy—the
mountains.
It’s colorful as Autumn, supernal in design,
mourning
the month of December. I heard a cricket
praying
softly, a bird ever to chant, raking throughout
the
Summer months. So many leaves—to fall a soul,
sorting
through philosophies. Find it come music, ten
years
gone, raving over scholarship. I saw her in a picture,
raging
mystic, as consequential as faith. A Sufi danced,
a
dervish chant, wooing angels. I smile this life, enlove—
with
everything Spirit, driving a speed limit. So many
to
perish reborn, cleaving to a discipline, and private
discipleship.
I come to you, thankful for love, grieving
a
short encounter.
