In a chamber illuminated by smoke and the whispered hum
of silence's numb thumb
a book has sat in silence
and entombed
by breathy loves regret
this book holds the power
of man and woman
thous holiest hour
and sits upon the shelves
of churches
and homes across our very nation
this night
but it has sat inside
internally as well
the book of our being
of gods'us literature
has stood ajar
and not wide open
like the far flung open doors of a church
on a day
of nuptual celebrations
where we have danced like a lamb in the
palm of our being
and wondered from whence we have come
and whence we shall go
and by stone and crook
whereby we will make it there
and in the words of the moutain
and the burning of the bush
of our own souls eternal beating
we have pondered and cast
and sat awake long nights interpreting
the meaning of our lives
the cast of our very making
and so to have we stood to the last
resisting
the stones glass,
that wall of meaning
all of our reflections keeping
that shows us the changes
that are in the creating
so we have stood by
and the books pages have quivered
and yawned
waiting for the moment to fling wide
the curtains and see through
all of these
the daily bread,
of our silly macinations
at creating our lives
daily incarnations
through keepingt the doors just a tad bit open
but not all the way
just a tad here and there
but never
ever fully flinging open the keep
and opening the door to let the breezes of our
eternal blood seep through
and awaken the spirit as it yearns to soar
so tear
this book that has sat
off your shelves
open the pages
that are your soul quivering to be known
and dive deep
fully asking for more
to bathe in the wonder
of knowings beating breast
and taste the symphony of your own
souls orchestration
sip deep
inhale the nectar
the wisdom
the beauty
the beating
that is not a book
nor a school, nor a church
nor really even a door
it is not your mental mayhem
or your understanding
its more
its the bone deep
soul deep yearning
to know your own
soul
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