The ink in the pen,
like all perceived,
is Love itself.
With words,
either drawn
upon the brain,
or laid to paper,
I lose the very image
given on a cloud.
Clear in heart
but vague
in consciousness,
tears of recognition
run down the cheek.
Oh, that I could
hand it to you
like a ripened plum.
Perhaps you might
seek the tree
to which I point.
Finding the Fruit
is your affair.
Consuming it's essence
is silent, singular.
Perhaps the
tree of life
to which I point,
will expose it's fruit
and you will be
consumed in the consuming.
I can give only
the Love that flows
from the pen.
pointing where it may.
Given by Love itself,
the ink flows freely.
