the great emancipator,
the transcendental tuner,
the epic naysay to doom
and its compatriots,
is not love,
but such is its method,
as is hate,
as is fear and
courage and cowardice,
stoutness and frailty,
the damned, the holy,
the ill conceived--
such are its method--
tender exhume of
the ever ember,
the gentle smoke:
transient and
in constant surprise.

but breath, the flux
of void, the unknowing
consciousness that puts
ego to its proper chair
and cries the lullaby
in jeerful strike, is
the simple breath,
the simple mindful
escape into

mindlessness