The Many Faces of God

The Many Faces of God

​ Marion loves to wear her lips in pink, glossed in a manner of delusional innocence. She walks to her daytime job at the newspaper office every morning and decorates the lies of the world with the whims of her boss. She’s been with men before, but most of them were never lovers. She eats popcorn every evening and gives her dinner the accompaniment of the finest of wines from Southern France. She gets the money from her father, who divorced her mother seven years ago. He loves her well and ensures that she eats her meals on time and has enough to buy her pink gloss. Marion is sad that life never seems to take an exciting turn as the months of her years fly by. Marion is beautiful, but Marion is sad. The cobbled streets of Paris give her no more solace than the wide roads that connect her city to the rest of Europe. While the job at the newspaper office does enough to help Marion hide her mind from herself for eight hours a day, she fills her soul with grimace and hatred for life every night when her cheeks touch her pillow. A Christmas came when the wine didn’t do enough and the broken heart of Marion befriended a rope that hung tightly from a ceiling fan. It was not a tragedy, it was a movement of fate and Marion was gone.

Felix loved his usual doses of LSD by the beach every twice or thrice a year. He believed that the mind needed to be reset every time it got too clouded with the mushy movements of the mundane world. But the last time around, Felix was imprinted. Felix had always believed that his awareness was separate from the objective world and he could dip his hands in the water without getting wet. But the LSD had brought him to believe that everybody shared the same ability. This induced a flame of spiritual jealousy deep inside the materialistic caverns of Felix’s soul. So he turned to DMT to find an explosive way out of the confoundedness that kept him separate from his ecstasy. The DMT worked. It gave him peace. At least it did the first time. The second time, Felix was imprinted again. And this time, he was drawn to strongly feel that the human body was an unfortunate bondage and this vacation to the Earth was an opportunity to free one’s soul from bondage. The wrists of Felix met the sparkling sharpness of an unbranded kitchen knife and left his body lying cold and still in his mother’s kitchen. Felix was beautiful and Felix was free. And now he was gone.
Dr. Kennelly was a victim of Asthma and she had dedicated her life to cancer research. Her everyday contact with tragedy had given her the courage to become an alcoholic. Her everyday interaction with death had given her the wisdom to become loose in speech and careless with her research. When age brought the perception of “fifty years old” into the awareness of Dr. Kennelly, she decided that her lifelong rejection of tobacco smoking was a hoax and she let her resistance slip into the delights of spending $200 a month on tobacco. Her Asthma met several instances of acute torment and left Dr. Kennelly struggling for breath in a twin bed in her lonely bedroom. Her daughter would visit her once a day and kneel beside her, reading poetry from Gibran and Rumi trying to give the old woman a sense of eternity. Dr. Kennelly was beautiful, but she didn’t know that. A morning came when breath had become a matter of perpetual endurance. She was a medical lady. It wasn’t much of an effort to find the pills that would bring her peace. Her daughter read her eulogy and seemed to be the only one that wept at her funeral. Dr. Kennelly’s research was taken up by some other team across the country who eventually made progress. But nobody will remember Dr. Kennelly. Nobody will remember the soul that was spilt because of its contact with the mortality of human dreams.
Bobby Dream was a delightful young poet whose verses dared to explore the darker nature of human existence. He left his heart to the safekeeping of his childhood sweetheart, Emily Karma, who ensured the softness of Bobby’s heart when his talent swam swiftly into the spotlight of concrete human society. Bobby Dream’s verses gave hope to his friends and reminded them that life was no struggle to make it to the throne, but instead a dance to make the grave itself a throne. Bobby’s friends implored him to take his literature to the world in a formal, published manner. Bobby resisted for several years but finally found the plasticity in his mind to reject his rebellious human heart. After nine bestsellers, Bobby decided to go on a romantic date with his hypocrisy. He looked back on his teenage rebellion and touched its innocence again. He admitted that he had failed his purpose. Ms. Karma was now married to a man who worked at the steel factory and she had three children. One winter morning, Bobby Dream saw her walking with her youngest who seemed to hop along as her mother smiled in the sunshine. The smile gave Mr. Dream a heavy remembrance of his carefree heart in the days of his youth. Today had become an endless struggle through sessions of book signings and new contracts with the publisher. All Bobby wanted was to lay in Emily’s lap again and listen to her whistling as the cold breezes of winter would reflect off the warmth of their communion. Mr. Dream would never find such a moment again. As he penned down his last poem, Mr. Dream polished the pistol that seemed so friendly today. Emily Karma shed tears on the mud that would make the grave of Bobby Dream. Bobby was beautiful and forever in love. He took away from himself as much as the world had done. Mr. Dream’s poems live on, but Bobby is gone.
They were all beautiful and now they’re gone. Does that mean that the lives that they lived were any less charming? We move and we move struggling through the resistances of our hearts hoping that eternity would kiss us before we meet our doom. Is it that eternity is a gift only for the few? Is it possible that our mortality is realer than we fear it to be? Is it alright to live our lives in an unforgivable vibration of boredom and hatred chasing dreams that were sold to us by people who were just like us? What are dreams? Why do we dream? Why do we aspire for higher states of human living? Let the sound of the sky’s violins create causeways in our hearts and remind us of our inherent beauty. There is a sense of needlessness that is natural to our hearts and if we dare to touch it again, we might meet the peace that we have craved for ever since we left the warmth of simplicity in our younger years. We are chasing the things that we believe will help us dance, but we never see that this is the only moment in which we can dance. I am a man of poetry, music, and other erotic things. I have touched beauty in the middle of the darkness, with the ability to rejoice even when nobody is watching. It has taught me that my mortality is my liberation; the very foundation of what we can deem beautiful in this immense, miraculous life. If all understandings fail, the only thing that we need to remember is that we are free. And our freedom can never be blemished by the streetlights of space-time that help us dance between what is real and what is not.

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People in the Summer

People in the Summer

As I walk in sunshine,
And watch the many faces of an unnamed god,
Walk through these impertinent streets,
Filled with rapturous slang,
Scents of olive oil and melting steak
I turn around and remember,
The faces of those older summers,
In another place, another time, another age almost,
Faces I cared too less to value,
To kiss in my dreams and cherish over expensive scotch
I think of those faces,
And how each one of them,
Told a different story, a different drama,
An epic. Each one, waiting to be explored,
And yet I walked over those faces,
Trampled over them in the arrogance of my delight,
Soaked in the easy scents of mystique and reader’s delirium

The summer is young, the long summer,
And I lie in delight watching these figures pass me by
One side of me, swimming in endless ambitious dream,
The other in questions, scrabbling words and dabbling numbers
Two sides me, clashing beneath the August sunshine,
Battling for decision, for clarity in the middle of sinusoidal transparency

We ache to love, ache to know the insides of each other,
To look into each other’s eyes and know what makes us tick
You see, real compassion hides in vulgarity
In the deepest of intimacy, that each pair of living eyes,
Craves for.
But hey, we’re too lukewarm,
Too in diplomatic agreement with cowardice,
Settling for cheap handshakes,
And heartless salutations,
Greetings that never touch any soul,
Hellos and goodbyes that smell like socks;
Empty people, cruel people,
Funny? Well, who wouldn’t think so?

We need to touch more, look inside more,
To feel the heat that drives each other,
To sink ourselves in the passions of our neighbors,
To share in their delights, writhe in their pain,
We need indulgence to cure this comfortable world.
There’s no finding of that in our halls that demand courtesy,
In our homes that expect grooming and manners
No, we need wildness in our temples,
Of staplers, printers, and telephone harlotry
In our little rooms filled with the foul fragrances of formality
We need wildness, darling,
And we need it everywhere

People in the summer,
Our lives are longer than we have deemed them to be
Happier and blessed with more depth,
Than we choose to imagine
If you leave your eyes to rest in the ice,
You will never find the sun
You will leave your heartbeat to its cowardly convenience,
Your dreams in the hands of paltry soothsayers
And your eternal life in the claws of mortality

But you won’t let that happen, will you?

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

Here Comes the Music

Here Comes the Music

Time feels like a soft fabric, sewed with great care,
Molded into fundamental existence
I watch it slip through my wicked perceptions through day and night,
Through my many calculations and intonations
Through my fiery kisses thrown at the grains of reality,
That find their way through holes in society
Much wine, much laughter, ah, the sweet delights,
Of waking life, of open eyes and sober dancing

Can I drop the waking awareness of myself?
Can I drop myself?
Drop my deadly awareness of you, my notions of you,
Her and him, I, you, them, us, all these slipping dreams
How can I come and dance at your doorstep,
Without a mind for a soul to hold onto
The sweet delights of escaping piano sounds color the space,
The space around me to birth something new
I cannot put forth anymore song that is your story,
A story of your past, of our history
No more music that will stink of nostalgia,
And be beaded in fading, faulty, old décor
Ah! How we dance! Look, its ecstasy knocking at your heart,
She’s come seeking fervently for a lover
And you, a busy snake meandering through yesterday’s dreams,
Sell your heart to sorrow instead

Come look with me into the gaps of creation,
Into the friendly darkness of the void
Come find yourself with me, come, I am
Let us go naked into the sunshine of the lord,
Seeking nothing yet being it all
Being the fabric, the very source of this all,
Of this great endless tale of waving light

We are the fathers of tomorrow,
The children of yesterday, beholding old dreams,
Seeking ancient archaic desires in the wilderness of illusions,
The illusions of different lives, several lives
And how we seek, with throbbing blood pumps and shining eyes
With innocent despair and mindless wanting
Ah, the sweet adventure of it all
The pain, the seething pangs of existence,
And its subtle yet glorious delights
How can we not see the whole cosmic joke?
As it unveils its tremendous humor,
Before our waking eyes,
Before our yearning non-existent selves
Before the dust, the fleeting dust that we are
In dust here I see the beatific vision
From dust I am, to dust I am,
And I am

Some symphonies never began, and they never end
Some take the grooviest turns and some persist,
Forever feeding the unspeakable magic of the universe
Look, there’s great music out there kindling our wisdom,
Great sound, great vision, there’s something glorious happening here
But we aren’t seeing it! We’re lost to clear glass and mirroring windows
We’re lost to hazy dreams of meager delights
We don’t really want everything do we?
If we did, we’d have it all
We don’t want enough, we don’t seek enough,
We’re lukewarm soldiers in destiny’s war
We haven’t the slightest idea of what this life really is,
Not the slightest idea of what we ourselves are
Foolish folk given such tremendous gifts,
I don’t see how these many men walk,
Six feet under into their cozy homes,
Without ever having realized the real spark of it all

Ah! Life, it’s too sweet to taste and too delightful to behold,
And yet! We are it sweet beloved,
We are it all
Aren’t it such a magnificent thing?
Ah! This magic, isn’t it wonderful?
Let’s strum our guitars sweet beloved,
Bring out the grandest pianos into the deserts of our society
Humanity needs no saving, it needs good music

I have heard salvation, but never seen it,
I have let it taste my blood in deep sound,
Kiss and lick my heart in silence,
The soul has ears but no eyes,
The truest of things exist with eyes closed
The deepest feelings, the most magical moments,
Close those eyes my love
Feel that invisible breeze reaching your insides,
Salvation is here. It wasn’t anywhere else, ever
And now it comes as wine in crystal glasses,
Before our eyes. To be drunk in splendor,
And enjoyed, as the sun sets,
For a trillionth time

Artwork: Garden of Delights by Toonikun

Modicums of Fall

Modicums of Fall

Fall comes, raining down upon us in orange,
Red, and little whispers of green through the trees
The world spins into delirious oblivion,
With lovers pausing from their thirsty kisses
Suited men in ties and bows pausing,
To look at how the whole Earth mourns
There’s a woman smoking a pipe at the edge of the forest,
She’s here to tell us how we shall break
As winter comes to steal our solace,
As the icy winds of Jupiter’s wrath,
Come to change the courses of our dreams

A little too much e-mail etiquette,
Brings our sensibility to cheap thievery
Being gentleman in the rain with umbrellas,
Only burns our innate imagination
See, Mrs. Candylady, she’s running and it’s raining,
She won’t get wet and ride a rainbow,
She seems to want only death and sunrise
See, Ms. Clockwork Angel dressed up like a man,
Somehow she put her heels on,
Got to work on time
And added more flavors of boredom and beer,
To her decorated fears of death

There’s literature dancing at the edge of my brain,
But I will not kiss it with eloquence
I will not give Eliot some bloody reason,
I will not let his ghost into my room
To tear the beats of my blazing heart into false lyric,
To sum my music up in his foolish equations of verse

The West lost their souls too early in dancing,
And let Newton wander about in their ecstasy
They let that mechanic ruin their hearts,
And now they’re running after Einstein
Let it go stargazers, leave your numbers to the leaves,
You come along sweetly and dance with me,
And we’ll leave your political pathoses to drench in rainbows

You will forget me, for I’m much of an ecstasy man,
And these people don’t like happy men
Happiness distracts them from their addictions,
Their addictions to boredom and dreams
They will crucify me to their sealed offices,
And tell me, ‘Keep your bloody music to your poetry.’
And I, sober like a black duck in cold water,
Will walk along on these roads of tar and paint,
To a little quiet death,
By the countryside

When we were young we spoke of meditation,
Like it was candy that we bought from a store
And as we stare into the raging fire of humanity’s tragedy,
We leave all those constructions of delight,
In the backyard of our worry
Liars, liars, sweet liars,
Children of the moon, children of assumption,
Children of the future, children without souls
Tell me more lies that I can tell myself,
For this world begins to move now too slowly
And the peaks of boredom come crashing down,
Into the valleys of my passing youth

We’re never too young to look back at life and say,
I’ve lived enough

We are the children of the moon, of the night, of fall,
Dancing to the orange waves of natural corruption
Death is all about us, calling to winter,
Like a child calls to his mother
And winter will come to make our cigarettes more delightful,
Winter will come to help our sleep be more complete

Mrs. Candylady will take off her heels,
And put on her new ones
And she’ll let Christmas kiss her hips,
As she wipes her face with shades of peach
And when spring comes along with its splendid dreams,
She will whistle her new tunes,
Of softness, purple eyeshade, appraised salary,
Minted tobacco, wheat beer, and cardiac arrest

And as I stand there at her funeral in summer,
I will sing for sweet Ms. Clockwork Angel,
Who stands beside me mourning her friend
Still wearing those long murderous heels,
Leaning on my shoulder, I smell those false tears
As I watch summer smiling through the clouds,
Smiling at the inevitable laws of our universe

Coat the seasons with your memories,
Tell your children the many lies of the sky
Coat it all with sugar, pepper, and chilly,
And bring drama to the corners of your smiles
Life’s too short for disastrous things,
It’s too long for ecstatic dreams
I see it all, now, above her grave,
The autumn leaf feeding off the sorrow
The autumn leaf, bringing life beyond,
To the evolution of dreams,
Into reality

Nice Dress

Nice Dress

Somewhere in a thorny heaven,
I met a girl who wore a nice dress
She tickled my soul with her imperfect teeth,
And let me know that I’m more than just lost
In her simpleton eyes,
She showed me waves of a stream
Where love was nothing,
More than a dream
Aching for ice-cream,
I asked her for sweet
But all she gave me was salt,
Dancing on her long heels

I say baby, I say baby,
Come and fill me with champagne,
In my dread,
Fill me with wine,
For I’m nothing but dead
I say darling, hey darling,
I’m dancing on dreams that are queer
I say take me away to a forest of leaves,
Where we can be animals again

So we left, we left for the sea,
Where the ships took us to catastrophe
Where the nights were long,
And the days too strong,
In the sunlight,
Our hearts got too hard

So I told her, baby wear it again,
And she wore that dress again
Her legs shining like Olympus,
Beneath the dark of her eyes,
Crying to be played with,
And touched
We went along,
Into another beer drenched memory
Where we felt our hearts broken in spring
I don’t know, if the world is true,
But your legs,
They bring me the blues

And so I turned,
To another glass,
Of bitter whiskey and class
Lying to my heart and mind,
Of a future that was never mine
We are lost,
In a feather of time,
Drinking rum and wasting time
Even though the night,
Ends too soon,
I’ll never forget,
How your legs,
Give me the blues

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden