Moonlight pointing the tips of the acacia, lighting the sparse low clouds sailing the early night sky.
Imprint of fabric on my left cheek, where I, breathing into my pillow, had counted out the minutes and heartbeats of my mortality.
Rough baked brick under my palm, leaning upon the gritty wall seat. Cabbages at my back, feathering their leaves down my shirt.
And I, thinking only of that time when I will
Burst this ego-sac
And flow
Like low clouds sailing
Like sticky water flowing
Like a sand spill down the fissure in the deep desert
And merge once more
Into the All.
No comments:
Post a Comment