was it the long one?
that famed those rain drenched prophesiers
in the desert rituals now deserted but for some romantic visage of upheaval(not to be had.)
or was it one word?
formed at the edge of those wet tongues dipping
into rivers to ressurect atleast the autonomy
if not the infamy
in a wasteland of forgotten magics and melody.
plastered across foreheads
in the middle
of rushhour traffic
pregnant in the netherbelly; beastly proportions, brilliant if not born still
pricked into the thick-skinned
wrists of some mysterious glimpse
into recollections of things having been known for forevers,
but not always.
what is the ending if not just one breath?
nothing in particular will recognize any other thing for beauty if not left without a breath
who can distinguish the length of one line to the next if not for the makers of such journeys?
at once, there are no words and you are left for dead at the roadside of enlightenment, so quiet,
it is and
it is and