I whisper the hope and coming of existing.
I twist the pages of this book I am reading.
Its lines filled with in between distances,
on and off realities, yes and no seeking prayers.
And there on the pages I discover
the freshness I have been with you.
We are new and old, on and off, yes and no.
Beating hearts that flow in allusions of truth.
I whisper the hope and coming of existing.
I twist the pages of this book I am reading.
Its lines filled with in between distances,
on and off realities, yes and no seeking prayers.
Without regard for selfish yearnings,
I drink of the sea of possibilities.
And I will hold you. Strong and confidant
in my arms. Gentle and brittle in my
benediction of love.
Resurrection of manhood.
Resurrection of self.
I whisper the hope and coming of existing.
I twist the pages of this book I am reading.
Its lines filled with in between distances,
on and off realities, yes and no seeking prayers.
This voice sings no song for us.
Instead it speaks of me and you, you and me.
Us.
It has been a century, or more, since
I have splashed in that clarity of being.
I whisper the hope and coming of existing.
I twist the pages of this book I am reading.
Its lines filled with in between distances,
on and off realities, yes and no seeking prayers.
