spirals

there is something
to the idea of nothing

to the idea of
everything and nothing
being wed
both alive and dead

we are so close to the
fire it is wet like water

she is so old and wise and small
she is infantile even, no one at all

he is so depressed and down
he smiles through shades of brown

it is all such a cycle
of neverending
oneness

i don't try to understand
it

i just be it

back and around
and around

again.

one

her fingers

stretch
and stiffen

stiffen
and stretch

arching her back
all of herself
bends in line
one after the next
she searches
for alignment

rightness

for expression
that capitulates
and
undulates

with words as her
beacon
and rythym as her
song

she cries out to herself
she cries out to the world
she cries out to the buddha
within her

she is coming in and staying out
and it is always the same
thing
the same song to sing

there is only

One.