Homage to the Lark
The dark rims of his glasses support the magnification of a world of darkness all his own. If I crawl to the vacant church falling emptily from love lost, a loneliness less empty commences per the congregated silences to have fallen through the years. Voices in a sacral act echoing a pact of trust, whispering if they could, quiet in the library of God; love is the purest noun.
all else ego forgot
I place the bowl in front of me
to fill it with ego
the latter like cereal
is not nor could be,
no matter
empty as it seems.
I leave ego
ego leaves me
re-entering fullness.
poems by Joel Schueler