(I)
most mornings, grey,
veni veniwe don't even hear
ourselves harking
like angels
who have forgotten
that the mortals
are listening
unaware, not blissful
we flutter the wings
of our imagination
our attention hovering lingering
over strangers - rejecting/conforming
passing in and around friends
going through and between Desires
as if Eros
wasn't actually right there
taking notes, granting these
semi-conscious wishes
torn from unconscious patterning
You what is your clearing?
what have you not cleared
that such messiness you generate
you who are nothing less than
Precious
Named for the very depth
of your being:
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