Ah, Beloved, Beautiful Heart —
shall we once more disembark,
far from the daze of hazy dreams,
wan emissaries of the Mystery Queen,
between our words on this flat screen
and mind imagined, sight unseen?
We tumble now through black hole cracks
where streetwise devas leave no tracks,
astride the waves of passion’s motion
overwhelming any notion, drifting
deeper in our ocean on the sails
of Heart devotion.
Who can fathom such emotion –
could it be, inherently, we’re free of all identity,
or is it all just more words, just another façade,
like the idiot play of an idiot god, and is there
a train and this is that train, and all the pain
and doubt is carried off in love’s elation –
will this be the cause for laughter?
Or is this our disaster — that the train
we prayed would finally come
has never left the station?