No words describe the truth and yet I am the truth. Even
pointing to the truth is much too brazen of an act
and maybe dangerous to another who mistakes it for a thought
and then believes it going on to form a new religion resulting in empirical
destruction, inquisitions, holy wars, and waiting for the end of times which
may require their personal intervention on authority of voices in their head or paragraphs they read inside their venerated book.
But poetry may be more subtle. Lines are written in a way where
nothing solid is ever said—
because it's in-between the lines that's really talking.
Here between the lines the spirit of the poet speaks
and here between the lines the spirit of an audience is
listening. And spirit equals spirit.
There’s no difference. There’s no two. There's just an open clarity
of knowing, being, loving space. No hat is hanging there.
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