the bus to come by, on time.
waiting for a short stop-
the moment to yank the string.
the destination which develops me,
like an old black and white photograph,
of who i used to be.
Waiting on a healing groove.
waiting on an Angel’s song.
waiting for the Buddhist monk, to finish chanting.
watching the Muslim praying at Sundown.
Searching for God or My Goddess,
beneath the olive tree.
Religion divides too many of us.
Ripped apart to pieces and yet,
the soul stills knows where to go.
waiting on a healing groove.
waiting for illness to depart,
willing for it to leave my lingering heart.
Wanting to be more whole,
then being torn apart.
watching the world from a safe distance,
as it argues among itself,
as war breaks out,
as poverty reigns- sometimes there is so
so much pain,
I begin to feel hollow-
as a slender reed
like an empty Egyptian
my words themselves begin to bleed.
Like an outpouring of
random graffiti, i make the Tag-yet
even I do not know-what the Hell I am saying.
on the healing groove.