In a world
of far too many assassins,
conducting strikes, consciously or un,
on souls
and their tenderest wilds,
we need more whisperers,
those miming the cursive gist of stars,
willing to rise up in choir
and share the stories
while imparting the secret codes
indelibly imprinted into the molten core
of our divine origins—
The whole shebang a song and dance routine
that never goes dull, never grows old—
singers, dancers, dreamers,
stirrers of the heartstock jazz soup
in a bubbling cosmic cauldron,
and mark my words,
what begins as a slow river
of whispering
will become the silver-tongued sea change
upon which new vocabularies
and seasons of being
will turn us inward,
to the angels
and reapers
who were always us
to begin with.