The enlightment drops words, things
I am at peace with the light, the sand, the river.
The thought of non-being is subtle, touches a cord.
Hours slip, silicon hardens.
Grains of truth move towards essence.
The thought of emptiness was very powerful.
I sit by myself, swallow a stunned voice.
My hands become white.
Inside of me was a book holding a past.
I hid nothing: my faultline.
It was a strange poverty.
I could not plug it, a hole in memory.
The voices drip.
A moon-knife slices my room.
Far off a poem drifts, in blue nothingness.
The day was very ill and night again humming a tune of rising sun.
