LANGUAGE
Poetry,
not the rush of untamed Prose
is the language of Creation.
Unbound, punctuated with nature’s photographs,
to still your heart sensitive only to the soft rush of sounds that pass as words that only you can decipher,
in your silence, a gray morning when
God Himself passes as a vapor across the sands where Angels’ feet imprinted time past.
can anyone know your heart? Its only the wind that whispers and you collect the words as
music/chords/notes/vibrations/desires/color
in that silence that you keep so close to your very being as you melt down to mere emotions looking at the vast nothing
and then you ask the name of God;
no,
God’s name is His,
I don’t care to know I have my name/ a secret,
in my silence
when we meet to admire each other with language that comes like sounds,he knows my secret name,
the wind the rain the coo of a brown Dove….language, the sound within the silence of being. That I am.
lmh. 4/2618