For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust-grains floating and flying in the will of the air, often forgetting ever being in that state, but in sleep I migrate back.
Happy, not from anything that happens. Warm, not from fire or a hot bath. Light, I register zero on a scale.
Peace is wonderful, but / ecstatic dance is more fun / and less narcissistic
I grow silent. Dear soul, you speak.
To find the Beloved, you must become the Beloved.
A pen went scribbling along. When it tried to write love, it broke.