Ceremonial air is amidst momentary strands of lightning,
All too sudden, it tends to resemble a sanctity at bound.
It is as though an instance of life has closed onto itself, tightening,
I am finally being pushed out, and can feel it all around.
I can hear the floorboards creaking. I can hear your tip toes.
I can see your shadow, in the peripheral I see your silhouette.
Does it astound you, how much I can see without speaking?
In a vacuum, your memory is empty, void, nothing and vacant.
In my room I permeate, suffuse, diffuse, penetrate and perfuse.
And with a telescope you can see my veins, my blood, me.
You see the texture and unconditionality of my heart.
Can you see it?
You will find fire and heaven below the surface.
I will remain unwavering in the lava and avalanche of our exquisite sense of satire.
You will see.
I hope you can see.
Because what I see, well, its hard to explain.
No answers, no questions. No beat, no hum.
Only a glow, a sparkle a twinkle that will blink at you.
To my city, to my home. To my people, to my lover.
The abstractions detract and subtract from my tract attraction to the city’s extractions. And I am sorry for that.
I will be with you. No matter what.
The other day, someone asked me if I meant what I said.
I told them that meaning is an intention with a result.
I travel the world because I can never say good-bye.
My life has become a result of my intention to never say good-bye.
My sadness is when I cannot return.