-It comes on its own,
fills the chambers of life
with a flurry of thought,
an image taken,
reshaped, stretched and
reconfigured…
syllables sweeping
across the mind, an echo,
a wind – the same
sound…
a yearning which wakes
you in the middle of night
arousing the physical apparatus,
which contains the heart, to
stretch and reach for a
body, a soul, a beating heart-
beating with your own…
the lingering of scent, the ethereal
presence carried by the breeze, in
the morning dew, the presence left
when there is no presence—what
you hold onto until the return
of the image, the syllables, the
body, the soul, the beating heart-
beating with your own
and with everything the scent-the
ethereal presence that manifests as
well when there is presence…
madness…
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