Voiceless Gnosis

poetry of eros

source: pinterest

Three notebooks sprawled on the table
holding six months of secrets 
poured from my chest, hidden, mostly.
But why keep them
inside this body..
when she wants
to pour out, 
and out, 
and 
out.

Out with it! 
You witch, you whore, 
evermore you are permitted
to roar your thunderous knowing,
so says eros,
muse and mother, oh,
she’s saucy, ready for your
chorus of questions, visionary.

Where did I lose you?
Where did I begin to think
this poetry was
all my own?
Words are 
evidence of you
writing through this body,
revelations of conscious clarity. 
I see.
I see? 
And taste?
What of it? 
My tongue,
its preference, 
the way I experience
bitter as sweet. How is that?
A cellular arrangement,
or something more?
Joyous attention, yes?
Arousing and mysterious and 
my hand knows this.
Curious.

Come back into the 
central column
where breath emanates, 
buzzing golden aliveness
through
33 vertebrae 
and a throat
flowering open to
voiceless gnosis.