Gathering my faith to my chest,
tramping toward another fire,
tramping toward another fire,
angels hovering not near enough,
perhaps, to smell their lily breaths
perhaps, to smell their lily breaths
but to hear their wings beating the air;
aiming towards my best shot,
a wild and improbable lifeboat,
my Beloved shunting me toward His table –
(if such a table exists among
the misted hopes and myths of men)
by sapping the flavor of every sip and morsel
which does not bear His thumbprint and signature.
Or, am I reading too much into this –
creating for myself a solace,
thin and impalpable as the ghosts
I have long chased,
which routinely plague
all partakers of this reality?
God only knows and He’s keeping mum.
Apparently, its faith He’s after in the interim;
faith, in the end, all He leaves, our fallback
connection when hearts fail to love.
O child of God, you belong to Meher Baba.
You couldn’t leave Him if you tried.
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