Whole, they said, it is about being whole.

Whole, I said, is that a place where one

can be, or an idea of what one should be?

Or is it a dream, where birds fluff feathers

in ridiculous blues, reds, chestnut, where

life is shining and the dark days of monsoon

lie drowning in the dirty gutters of reality?

Is the peacock whole? Is it more complete

as it changes tone, reduced deep decibels,

relaces them with fluty cry, with trills and

echoes which ping as music, blends as one?

Or is being whole when I take the broken

rocks of self, the branches of spirit and

the dust of soul and mix them with the

water of emotion, to make the mud of me?

My lungs suck deep the teachings and the

should, wheezing as they cling and close,

the I of Me and the Me of I, as life demands

I swallow fermenting fruit in order, to be





About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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