Harbinger of mercy; grace not my path
That I would live in truth, without measure
Divested of deceit, unveiled in knowing

Harbinger of mercy, steadfastly refrain
That I should know, that which is naked and raw
Pain as pain, joy unbound

Harbinger of mercy, stay fast thy hand
That I might accept, all things untouched
Multiplicity as stolid singularity


Still Beating

The first cut, barely felt
A cruel word, in anger
Still beating

Scar tissue doesn’t hurt, much
Love and life goes on
Still beating

The crack, not so deep
Indifference, unknowing
Still beating

Shattered, beyond repair
The illusion, the heart
Still beating




Between where I am and where I wish to be

Is the measure of all stress

Between what I have and what I want

Is just a reason to impress


Between who I am and yet strive to be

Is the measure of this lie

Between what has been and is yet to come

Is a story into which we buy


Between that moment and the one not born

Is a world, stunning and free from strife

So I will sit and reengage

This mystery we call life



I Am

“I” am but a thought,
a loosely stitched patchwork of memories.
Frayed and gapped,
An illusion of my doing, the apparent sum of me.

Present to the world,
this gossamer veil of lesser truths.
Molded and shaped,
for the benefit of other eyes.

Tattered and worn,
threadbare, light cannot be shadowed.
From sleep filled eyes,
awake, now into the simple dawn I go.




Prescience, sensed, something seems

Held out of reach, patiently

Softest mist on the fringe of dreams


Whisper softly, again I may know

Days long gone, in silent groves

Lost between sky and earth below


Fragile touch, fear not, as I became

Apart, where once but one laughed

Heard or spoken, one and the same



All In One



There never was alone at all

In singular awareness bound

No you, me, or really anything

Not a void or abyss to be found


A flower is a flower and always was

Just as sunsets fill our hearts

No you, me, or really anything

In awareness and never apart


Original nature still clear and pure

As it was long before the fall

No you, me, or really anything

In Great Perfection, the essence of all


Love Is

Love is but a heart held high
Unfolded to soar, with joy to fly
In simple things oft overlooked
Not grand designs to be mistook

Joy is but an open book
Another reads with every look
Open and honest in which you write
Love is but a heart in flight