|
SoulMates, Nothing MOre Than ThatSoul-mates,
It’s nothing more than that. Reading, All the old letters, You asked me once, How impermanence is measured, I said, it’s measured best by the merest moments… Yes… Singing… Yours… Out of the darkness and dust, Of time past, As my Manhattan home sleeps, And dimly remembers so much life. From the room’s ancient corner, Through the box of cyberspace Comes your voice, Fresh, but already sentient, A young life As perennial as the grass… So, timelessly I seep into your space Of matte dreaminess, Shrouded in contemplation… In the very New York… What a warm thought… Yet you don’t know me… Like the grass, A young life is constantly redirected by winds, But this particular one is rather rootless. It does not possess The luxury of earthly attachment. Limbo is home. Soul-mates, It’s nothing more than that. You, my friend, just wrote a song with me. Reading, All the old letters… Soul-mates… It’s nothing more than that… |