‘More’ is not Life-Friendly
I wish I could ask for more,
but I know more is a waste.
More is a thing that comes in my way,
To keep me abstrusively away.
A loop so complex, yet at the same time baseless.
More is never peace and love.
It is a mere play, a mere edge to abrade my steps.
I sure know a thing eternal,
I have seen it twice or more.
And I’d sing of the tunes fresh from God’s Cello
It is but a thing of love I long for,
Not acquired and could not be more.
At times I do long for a bent or a crack to make visible.
But for the world, I can’t utter, I can’t speak of the touch.
It is an open secret known to a few illiterate nomads.
One that is bliss, is never lost and can never be more.