The perfect moon on the perfect space under the
perfect rain; much to see, more to feel, made perfect in what I fail to know; admitting
a dearth, beneath a dirge, lamenting our circumstance—soft melody, viola wise,
cello born.
During sunshine, most meditative, most connected:
silence, undulates, another rising into a gem; so deep into its depth, made
rich in poverty, such a contradiction, maybe a paradox.
Rougher believes, earned wisdom, most can’t handle metaphysics.
What has the knower said? We’re eager to listen. We’re
eager to feel her.
Along
the road, and headed to the pantheon, we met a Bright Light. It spoke to us.
Turning in confusion, such visceral encounter, we fail to understand Awe!
