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Then Came the Filling... I was content if not happy before I met you (Emptiness tends not to exist if the vessel it invades never views its reflection) ...and I was so blind, then, and deaf, too the maggots of the mundane incumbrances of day-to-day had laid larva in my lobes-- ravished my retinas-- a tragedy I'd willfully permissioned during the drought of the desert days But contentedness is not, after all, the Blue Bird itself and it certainly isn't a peacock-- vibrating with charismatic chakra and attitude-- And peacock you were, are, as proud of your rainbow of secrets as I was fond of your devoted featherings --brush of your silk when the breeze squeezed orange blossom and jasmine into the night, --incense-- ignited by the slow burn of lava vaulting from our volcanic communionings Contentedness, no longer lovely You - so much more... a reigning queen and I your lady-in-waiting at your feet, your beck-and-call an open vessel never to know emptiness again filling to fullness running over and the sun refused to set, you delighting in my preening-- appreciating reciprocating Until the moon, bored with your beauty (or perhaps envious) shook the great star loose, separating us by day and night, devining our destiny to never be-- you - wine, me--virgin olive oil What does the full glass become when replenishment is discontinued? What I am now? Without, but with the memory of more-than-enough |
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