The fumbling pages
of my heart conceal
a secret spirit that
I meet in three
parts.
I avail my thoughts in
fault and perfect.
Eternally, my fingertips record
light’s hymn in circles
connecting
One mind’s ocean in sky.

The last day broke itself
and we all propelled upward.
We are born as suns
that reach to mold
belief.
We have no names; we
are the columns.
Our bones are left
melting
while the word of our lips
are lit
in strange oceans.

my tireless weight concealed
me in a whirring room.
sound.
i lost posture as i lost faith;
i expected good without having
it.
my trembling mind caused
ricochet thoughts
until I understood the parable
of invisible shackles.
loose the weight.
fly with me to the monument.
Light.

Impatiently,
two people sat knee to knee
waiting for some
image to
project on their
skies.
The day solemnly died.

Three thieves were spinning
in no such thing as
time - the mind, the foundry,
and the nocturnal sun.
Gazing, I found worlds of lines
within lines.
We were breathing,
singing,
constructing my bones.
My chest poured open.
I was weightless.
I thought.
I was healed in no such thing
as time.

I have stretched myself
out over the rims.
I flow over the skin
of creation. Inhaling sun and exhaling
moon while compressing them
as captives of my eye.
I am the volution and the
expedition - the chasm and the gate.
I narrowed the broad so we could forget to count
on and on.

Contort the spine and
bury the mere act
of making right again.
Take seed inside a mystic
path - a walking reflection
handed over your
comet of calmness trailed
by shining dissection
in the cool underground.
Surround the limbs and throat
by roots to become
the tongue while the adviser decides
his weight.

A story in the
fringe spoken on
a note
by exponential hands
that release.
The realest falls upon,
apart, alone
into eyes who participate.

By a single light -
Observed.

Observe mountains and
oceans,
scratching the
flying.
What was read?
Circle-strong constructed
heart and head.
Triangulate through a fold into
colors
within, alive,
and what was said
alone.

They were the newest
most recent stranger of eyelids
falling, hands
shoving, and breath
upholding the last cloud and
face.

They walked a narrowing
spine of gold and spoke with themselves
for days counting one million and
back onto flecks
and numbers
no more held together than a dry
mind.

They yelled a rampant question
to connect a cause
to the ground to the
stranger. The purpose was not
lost in dirt or death.
It is a frightening friendship
for a man and their
soul.

The span between earth
and sun
is nothing. We
named it
sky
because we are
obsessed
with holding things.

Last time and times I
have thought to
speak
or bar down all
fingers by landslide -
or sometimes when I hold
all of what was
beneath me.
Either place I forgot
the please
and not the pain
before every beat was forcing panic.
I need something
else to
happen.