We never have time to really feel the essence
held in cherished breaths while our lips entwine.
O' but absent ourselves from the source and we
find the air grown very rare.
As reality moves from the inner folds of
might have been, to always was, and will forever
be. It strikes me that there really is, - the more
that meets the eye- . For instance, am I crazy?
or why is it that by simply wishing and
burning a candle what used to be no longer is;
and the depth of you becomes deeper and 10 times
ten thousand lives shine in lucid relief.
So as we flit through the cultivated parts of mind,
I am reminded of the ghost that hovers
just outside directing the play.
In what other lives have I known your eyes
Your touch, unspeakably an abstract
What fate can do so we will meet again
on some world the future defied
I hate my body's rush
and my heart's resilience
to uncover your truth
only when you're gone
with the trace of love-lingers between my breasts
can I fathom your presence.