My voice alone is in constraint
for the voice of oneness has no audience,
seeks no you then me.
Listening could hear of itself,
lost amongst the all of it.
Listen has mood
as if a knock at the door.
Heeds breath out
as if disgust had a purpose.
But there are sense-aware floodlights inviting.
We will falsely engage in sensory presence.
I am sorry and soul-full
to receive you as separate,
as if I am a consciousness unconnected to you.
I cannot be connected
and know of this to be true.
Where we are one will eventually overwhelm,
and envelope whatever of this
that is earshot as posing,
supposedly, in support of us
as beings separate
as if that is what we appear to be . . .
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