waiting waiting waiting
The nearly blank screen
field of white snow paper
Your words remain there
something blocks from view
Something more essential
(if there is such a thing)
begs my full attention
It's as if I must close all
other doors pages voices
And let this One work me
however terrifying it may seem
Floating in the pristine sea
the vast body underneath
.
.
.
.
.
.Awaiting where voices
are Silence Itself
I am right there with you. This is to live for, the spaces in between. How sometimes it's enough to be. Being opens up to galaxies. That's why we write anyway, about not-writing, about presencing, pure presence. Yes: "Awaiting where voices / are Silence Itself"
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