There is no silence.
It is quiet, no manufactured noise,
no machinery running or dog barking
in the background, but a hum, a teeming,
the earth breathing, the planets spinning,
the synapses pulsating in concert.
There is always a scent of sorts,
no smell or odor but the taste of breath.
Eyes closed, worlds swirling,
dancing, between the eye and the lid,
tiny red dots in the blackness,
more solar systems than in the night sky.
There is no movement, no muscle activity,
no strain, a still, to a meditation
and the force of an unfulfilled levitation,
the motionless effort to resist dead weight.
This is the hushed spirit holy men speak of.
Becalmed by Craig Kirchner | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
