Shakti Rising

on the very edge of sleeping I go

seeking with both hands
for your hands, the coil and the amber

at the heart of the tree, it grows

in the middle of too many coincidences

on the inside of me,

you are the very substance perfecting
all those things gone missing,
you see; i make up feelings
all of the time, to fill it in:
i lie to myself, whispering

solutions set aside,

the last drink of water left

on the bed side of myself,

reflecting all the soulful

sullied and woefully unused pieces,

the hungry star rising

to gather all the songs sung

like lullabyes over closed and
darling eyes, but mostly
I just see myself bared
(so much more often)
i have no true knowledge of permanence

or possessions,
yet more kindness fully realized
at some point in the future
and with such lucidity,
a sober soft nodding off
such clear verbalization
the crystal found without
asking for this, an objective
and willful loving.