Conduits of the Sublime

I have been working, feeling, seeing in recent months the infinitesimal boundary between ourself and the sublime. And like Xeno's paradox, the oh-so-thin veneer DOES disappear. And then and only then do true poems come out.

All the writing I have ever done, is just a means of wearing away that layer: being ever closer to the moment, the moment that does not end.

And if these poems are conduits to the sublime, then so is every man and every woman.

Peace. Begin.

-S