Every number is divisible from its limited form,
and every limitation has no end to its troubles,
even the Unity and the One can be divided into trillions,
scattering a diversity that has no bounds,
two, four, six, eight, no one appreciates
the millions of seconds of your Time
whose dismemberment is effortless and violent,
breaking the bounds and boundaries of clocks,
arms, legs, toes, nails, cells, and cells walls,
from the heart, it tears and buries what it bruises
in forgetfulness,
and darkness which rages upon another:
“Save me from my pain, O beloved!
Translate: give me back what I have destroyed.

What they call love is the spilling of the blood,
and the desire for revival and resurrection,
the walking dead are hungry and fierce,
and so easily led astray,
infinitely divided minds, dry and brittle,
hungry for Wholeness within the rubble
of their own making.

The poet only speaks through what is infinite,
beyond the divisible number and numerology,
of time and things and faces and toes:
Let water be instead of the bloody numbers,
for water’s language is the surface of the sea,
lips guided by the hand of an intuitive heart,
across the surface, longing to drink deeply,
where the roots wander and tangle and tug,
while the fish swim and feed and thrive
to die when Time calls our sacred name,
one by one,
as the sun still rises and sets
throughout this glorious life.

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