I am

I am I can assure you that my heart has found its final season. Winter is not an option— a season no eye has ventured on, where my legs have not trampled, where weeds die like fish out of water. I know a peace only a few souls have entered— an oversized door that makes Solomon’s Temple tremble. I come with empty pockets. I burn no frankincense or aromas of the high star. My poverty is my badge, and my one-story epidermis is my proof. My heart seeks what is found here: a quiet hall, an epitaph without words, a poverty with luxurious eyes. Come close and shake my hand. Don’t let your eyes strip out my worth. Let the truth resonate in each branch of your receiving bank. I am the circles around the sun. I am the imperfection in the face of the cool night moon. I squat in pure existence