Puzzling your way back to nothingness
you must be; if the Void is an abyss,
to conquer it in life is impossible.
There is a blessing in ritual,
but it is all on this side.
Your private treasures I never knew;
beyond the Indian drums (of which you had
a collection), was there something,
some book, some record, you prized
above all others?
You were a technician of tough love,
collected hearts; had a passion
for Chinese herbs boiled down
to the root, to retrieve essential,
ministered weary angels
needing succor, familiar w/ your tongue,
your breath, the beating of your heart.
Saintly, to feed some soul's need
for flesh, nectar, sanctuary,
now its death's mystery
from which you can't escape-
maybe. I profess & confess
at Essene, 4th Street,
of good caffeinated coffee, conversation,
a few hours rest; was eternity
there, watching you, waiting silently
to bear naked flanks
to your moribund pleasure?
Who can tell what world
will fit a restless spirit well?