In this numinous bed, my heart is poured out like water, like consecrated port; my flesh wounded and bloody: starkly juxtaposed against a shroud of joy, grief, love, loss: life.

I am transcendent.

Untortured, finally, by the violence of uninvited thoughts, I am at peace, and one with the promised comfort of paradise; stunned:

I abdicate.

Dissected then cocooned and transformed, I emerge onto creation’s majestic palm, a sanctified place, consecrated by my torment:

I am emancipated.

Here the dervish ecstatically and perpetually whirls,
the Buddha meditates forever enlightened, and the Bodhi tree fruits. Abraham feeds grass to a lion. The lion chews it like cud then curls to sleep beside a wolf guarding a fawn. Jesus feeds, weeps, heals and blesses unendingly. The Magdalene discovers the empty tomb again and again. Mother Ganga purifies unceasingly. I am never, ever thirsty.

And love is

vast, forgiving, eternally enveloping. It invades this incomparable place. The holy palm extends, fingers like nested branched trees, once unimaginable, still indescribable and unfathomable, as air envelopes earth:

I am surrounded.

My bones, yours, his and hers and even theirs are scattered, hollowed out, indistinguishable one from the other; blood is identical, a viscous red and pours from connate wounds. Every single heart breaks and melts like wax and still, we fight the fact that we are one until, unprepared:

we awaken.

Standing in the vastness of the transcendental palm, reposing on the procreative root, I hear echoes of the cacophony we made while we slept. It had become a symphony. The reverberating separateness turned blissfully holistic. There is a peace in this reverant carnal place:

the artist's hand.

Before I awakened I heard, "God is the greatest, I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but God." and "Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God. The Lord is the One and Only." and mantras and chants and "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit" all at once but never competing, clarifying both euphony and call:

a rapturous chorus, clarion clear.

Awake and present, all and both amalgamate as was always prearranged. Disparate, antagonistic stanzas become the composer’s magnum opus:

silence.

We are one and of one and that is and has never been a secret except to us: separateness, a human construct.

Even that is forgiven here where I lay metamorphosed, in perfect bliss with my Beloved, rooted, healed, blossoming, fecund, redolent:

I am unbounded.

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