with every delusion shattered to nothing

we continue in emptiness

so black as pitch as to be blindness

to a sighted eye


and so devoid of sound

no music moves a heart

nor heals a soul


what avatar does not have

his work cut out for him?

who is so alive in those spaces

between our jaded consciousnesses?


while we recoil from the bleeding brow

in the garden to be uphold on a stake

wish it a bo tree if it were us...



Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.