To a steadfast love, always thinking of me,
depositing incremental amounts
of Him, arriving throughout my story,
and making short work of what really counts.

This is my voice, and I feed on my words,
tied, somehow, to future generations,
if only in spirit, alone. Little birds,
hence, drive the puck; I speak with the sun,

So the frequency between us encodes
our coordinates, and space would be finite,
a superposition of opposing modes.
Time goes on forever: we’re made of light—

people at the center of our own sphere.
Then, when we visit, our backs combine,
like waves passing, redefining what’s here
and there, before reclaiming His line,

Time is rotation about the higher
dimension—when that dimension is in use,
no time, for the subject, is what we concur:
our bodies experience no abuse—

we live in 4D, a function of 5D,
in all our various bits and pieces.
We’re aligned, internally, with eternity,
and, thus, i can’t be killed; no heart ceases:

Remembering myself, for shame, this
imperfect body made more imperfect
along the way; acting out, thanks to his kiss,
confined, as i was, by every defect

between me and a world that shut me out.
I have my medicine, now, to assist,
and i’ve accepted the only possible route
that keeps me to that which will consist

Halt, driver! You would leave Him behind
if I didn’t make mention of the source
of your forgiveness. Remind what’s defined
as a sinner, and go to Him, of course,

when the world gets you down. “I’ll be fine
without your help,” but the clock is ticking,
and your walking, friend, a very fine line.
You act like you know where you’re going,

So, I’m living for nothing but His love,
this real or imaginary companion,
more aligned with God than me, hereof,
though, in time, i might shine like the sun

that shined, once, on Him. I allow for that
possibility, since, in heaven, the sky
is the limit. I sound my way like a bat,
seeking proof, then, that i do not die,

I’m approaching His mythical place—the end of a radius, i suspect, that extends a little further than mine. I have to shift my whole world, therefore, to get to Him, and, to see Him again, I will have to shift my whole world again. So i can’t see Him, then, whenever I want—He exists on a dif-ferent plane. If your radius doesn’t extend that far, and you want to see Him, you have to go almost exclusively to Him, and most of us cannot do that. Our lives take us in other directions—lives that we cannot do without.

Counting time, a spell, like i used to do,
but questions surface, now, fast enough,
to be answered by His chosen few,
people inspired by the right stuff—

the progression, forward, to endless life.
so, i ask, with the best of intentions,
if, perhaps, i’m overcome with strife,
then what happens to His permissions,

Too bad, i think, that, as we age, we
gradually move away from each other,
winding up, mostly, alone; then, to be,
we dream of the world that we once were—

hoping, at last, to be reunited,
knowing, nonetheless, that it’s an idea
that goes with us once we’re dead,
freed, finally, from this mortal diva,

My sweetheart lurks on the horizon,
doing what’s necessary to bridge the gap
between what’s here and beyond the sun;
she gives her man, perhaps, a little slap,

and then repents—having chosen the best
man around. Does it bother me to live
alone, when she’s at another’s behest?
But there’s nothing, do tell, to forgive,