And For I am full of you,
In springs & roses & trees & soothing seas only not.
But in the swarming surges & nights & falls,
Carving enlightenment in my heart walls.
Ripening tempers & self-embers that used to rot.
Empty of things I am but few.
Yet those are you…
& for the days I’m empty — I cannot but speak
of the moments of temperance, as I sought remembrance,
For leaps of faith & lush learning — yielding yearning.
An everlasting mourning for the enduring morning.
& An endless reverence in a state of severance.
In one you bring me — In one you bring us.
Fathomless voices that I needed yet I know.
That I carried,
As I worried,
that I heeded deep within me as I grow.
Fathomless voices of beauty asleep.
That which is far off, and exceeding deep,
who can find it out?
In that dreadful doubt,
& the straining pain & that toil —in vain.
Indifferent to all things, I grew
In apathy of all things I be,
For your empathy overflows me.
And For that, I’m always full of you.
Unmovable disinterest brings man into likeness of God. … To be full of things is to be empty of God; to be empty of things is to be full of God.
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