And the Virgin Stepped Out of His Hiding Place and Wept

in Virgin

And the virgin stepped out of his hiding place and wept.
He saw himself at the bed,
laying there, being,
and enduring becoming.

And the virgin stepped out of his hiding place and wept.
He saw himself beside his lover,
the loving and the loved,
the envisioning Earth's Law of Parting.

And the virgin stepped out of his hiding place and wept.
He saw silence at its pure peaking;
the dawn of a storm's passing,
the smooth release belonging to attachment,
the complexities of an ever enveloping Soul
and blooming rose.

The virgin wept: placing the hidden out there,
onto the Body of the Loved,
the hands spread
as far as they can ask the fingers to reach,
cave-sunlight streaming everywhere:
See.
A rainbowed swimmer
dipping its toe in a pot of gold...

Happiness and stillness,
there they meet with the breath
of an infant's first gasp.

Emptiness and elation,
there they meet with the embrace
of an infant's first reach.

The Honor of Love rising through the back
belonging to the diagram of its heart;
hair begins to grow across the softness,
an eye made of millions more.

The virgin's echoes record themselves
into the fabric of dimensions
who only hear our second thoughts,
our second hearts,
our second breaths,
our second deaths,
and our seconds.

There is trust beyond thanking the Lover for,
there is a freedom,
if spoken of in the midst of the Loving,
vortexes appear at a summit,
slip over it,
a million lovers bones disappear along with its.

An open window,
two lovers, four gods and one prayer:
the virgin starring into the eyes of Fate,
whose opened up, laying there,
Loved and Beloved,
reverse-enveloped,
leaf peeling away from splitting apart,
revealing a second leaf,
who refracts green from pure white.

You show me: I love you.
I look and look,
cannot see the end of digging
for this well's deepest water.

I look above me and see transparent floors
of water pausing over me,
crisscrossing one another like a quilt,
the one deserts dream-recall
having wrapped themselves with.

I'm shoveling...
The streams take the soil away,
they're assisting for a better view of me.

You're unraveling,
I'm unraveling,
and unraveling made us.

Is there a sense of what holds such things as Unity together?
Does the Unified whisper secrets into the ear of Unraveling,
something about a third somebody called Love?

And Love can be seen holding the hand of Death's life
and Life's death, the in-between porosities
calling themselves Lover beside Loved,
Loved beside Loving,
Lover beside Lover and Lover beside itself,
at awe with the profundity of parting,
the absolute bliss of Leaving's kiss
and the present eyes recoding deep
the latest impression of a front, its back, a shoulder,
a breath-scent, look, glance, sniff,
legs inner-locked and sleeping,
willow branches held fast in the continuous wind.

The word 'I',
the word 'We',
the word 'I'll'
and the longing who permeates into anything
which tries to sit it down for rest,
that can be felt so surely tonight,
like a dog shaking its coat
from an Oceanside run for seagulls.

I shake and shake,
to see the stars hurling off me,
not back or forward,
just there,
from the shake,
into the shake,
weeping a reflection of having wept,
a virgin leaking oil like an over-full pine tree.

To the top I climb myself
and do not wonder
what the roots are doing;
because anything which lovingly
crosses another,
trusts far beyond its singularity.

December 2, 2001

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Michael E Angell has 1 articles online

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And the Virgin Stepped Out of His Hiding Place and Wept

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This article was published on 2010/04/03