Lake so dark
I can’t see into it
swallows last sliver of Moon
as clouds roll through to
cover the sky.
Quiet, simple.
No life, nor conflict.
Meaning, that quality grasp as sensation
matures into sense.
Sudden wet wind requires response.
I turn
back, front, crouched down
into my own shelter.
Why am I not safe in a spacious
room, exploring pleasure?
Consciousness quotes:
“That was another stream,
a dream not taken.”
No road enters here —
circle closed, unyielding.
Stories, dwindling candles, flicker.
Deep wealth of warmth.
My fingers draw ritual from
patient water.
Sensation condenses.
Sense evaporates.
Scent of self breath.
Taste of wandering wind.
Wet, dark, silent.
Outside of meaning.



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