Ti

The diamond cutting blade dulled. Oh, what can be divided? Oh, nothing. The poet friends are now palms swaying in distorted winds. To sit with pen paused is against the nature of his craft, so I will no longer wait, to say, to speak the internal. Hold that pen thought to my ear and listen! You are not to be remembered as a fictitious legend with no faults. No! The faults are the balance we often speak of, between holy and unholy. The butter on the dinner dish that has melted into a fatty river. There you are! The silence, disturbing and pleasant. The expectations dwindling in this moment of embrace. Come to me, visit, judge and don’t judge. For all is ok, spawns. So now I say what I said hours ago to my brothers: Bring forth the pregnant eternal time and place the meal on our tables, the saliva drip of hungry mind wants to be fed, regardless of substance, knowing nothing of previously meditated portions. Consume the heart of it all, the vitality of the written word and judge it only as what happens in the flash of brilliance.