The Way

I've looked for a way in, a tear in the silence that walls whatever is behind be it nothingness or being, bright mornings that almost tip into the ecstatic, a blessed oblivion where boundaries dissolve and all things become one, but the world always holds together, its forces fail to break. A prisoner of form, my cathedrals are cathedrals of space buttressed by trees, a sacristy for the echoes of creation still sounding across time. Forgiveness is the gentle wash of rain and the frail beauty of a wildflower, white as snow, is the candle flickering on the altar of the unknown.