What we call personal
is not.
It is a shard,
a sound broken from the Whole,
a breath of the Infinite
speaking through a finite throat.
The puzzle does not end in man.
We are only a piece,
a worm in the apple of creation,
lost in the narrow pulp of knowing,
mistaking our small corridors
for the corridors of truth.
And whether in the hollow belly
of a starving child in Africa,
or in the gilded weight
of America’s overfed dream,
each is a contour of the same design,
a fold in the endless fabric
of the Eternal Weaver.
The pattern is whole
in a single Eye,
yet unseen
in the plenitude of its becoming.
We do not live our own stories.
We are syllables
in a universal sentence,
entangled in its question marks—
each breath a comma,
each heartbeat a pause
finding love not in what we mean,
but in how our motion rhymes
with another’s.
We are words
estranged from their grammar,
seeking reunion in sound.
Each of us, a flicker,
a frame in the greater film,
beyond the scope of our screen.
We are particles of syntax,
small screws and wires
in the radio of God,
transmitting frequencies
we do not yet understand.
And still,
the message hums through us,
ancient, unending:
The pauses,
the breaths,
the silence between syllables,
they are what make
the meaning whole.
