whirling dervishes

are we all not in search for the holiest of grails,

seeking the cup from which to sip the sweetest nectar?

hopeful lips yearn to press against The chalice so fraught with Love.

all the while Rumi shakes his head and laughs,

reminding us that we are the wine,
we are the chalice,
from which we yearn to drink.

this is what i would tell you, if i thought you cared to listen.

the first wailing roar i don't remember should have been an indication,
but that only gets recalled on a cellular level,
when shamans share the sacred vine.
i knew of embers that carried the wind to the driest of foot hills,
thousand year old vegetation scorched in minutes flat.
lest we forget the millions of golden stars, the levies and Pol Pot.
it would stand to reason that the arc of history prepared me for our ever brittle break,
but it did not.
your eyes told me we were strong,
the flood waters that pushed against us didn't stand a chance,
that our love would shield us while we dwelled in the attic of some kind stranger.


ending is being worked on...