When all is up in the air,
I become the gatherer of clouds, and feathers.
When fair weather does not threaten,
then I do, warm on the outside,
looking in, inside several dozen degrees,
beneath Fahrenheit 1 a.m., I am.
On the dole, dancing to farandole,
The Faraday effect – rotating one way to an inner song.
I am the gatherer of sentiment,
fluffy clouds, furious lighting,
the one who survived it, almost all,
the thunder-bolts God, life, hurled,
except the last one.
(Lighting is an inch thick, and five miles long)…
(Song: ‘Every body dies, sometime.’)
Here in the clear sky
Our plane of Jah Hova cuts through a thousand altitudes,
attitudes, you stay silent (in your inner-plane),
of effervescence, and when I caught your scent in the present,
you smiled, said me, (you and someone else), were sun-kissed,
Star-crossed, kismet, the closest you ever got, to becoming a poet
or coming out of the Closet.