Let be the fringes of past,
for with all your hands
you cannot reweave
the rug soon to be
under our feet.
Step lightly,
there are beings here
and they have been here all along,
through our noises and *******,
and they do not celebrate
nor recoil,
but we must give them the space
they do not ask for besides.
I am in love with wear,
and white made of color,
and the black made of light.
The where to which we are going.
No amount of sowing can plant the seed
that is to be
these that will flower,
and still there is power there
in the empty air,
and it is shared.
Care not for my death,
for it already has your love.
Care not for sadness,
it is already sated.
I've waited for a sign from God
and here i find that his gift
is not to be had
but still is to be given.