I contemplate
About “What is god?”
My mind fingers through
Rolodex memories
In hopes of plucking
Certainty’s answer
From a flower’s fecund
Pinch-petal beauty.
A velvet tongue wraps-
Around a forgotten arm’s
Deferred rotten dream.
I think of the deaths
I have lived: all remain
Intact – like remnants of
A broken borrowed dream.
Now, “God!” – you say;
Do I say, “god?”
This comfort assures
(at its very least)
And makes warm
An un-accessed area
Of my joyous tearful heart.
A flash of Light!
A long White Tunnel!
Inside pure blackness
Is pure nothingness:
(A place I have been.)
On Occam’s Razor
Sits another razor
In perfect balance
Of Love’s reduced parts.