Listen without ears to the voice
that calls you, Come this way.
The intangible things that breathe
have no names but are life.
Something in the mist and fog
of our mystical musings awaits us.
One step more into
the cosmic wobble, lovers,
always one step more.
Heart, mind, compassion, empathy.
Our souls. Even those that are
imaginary and fictional, we name.
Words become us, however reckless.
Nothing that lives can be safe.
Stop listening to the music
and become the music—
bang the drums, play the trumpets,
sing the prayer, be what you are.
Should we trust anyone’s
proclamation of faith
who doesn’t argue with God?
From: Getting There
Unpub. MS p. 15
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