Sleepwalking Amongst The Grace.

Sometimes it’s the little things that bring you back where you belong.

I am an outsider upon the flesh of the Earth, a gypsy amongst the congregation and vanish within the revelation.

I close my eyes—lethargic with desire—a betrayal of consequence—a manifestation of my humanity.

A century of thought burdens my fingers and bargains with my tongue—a covenant within the courtship, and I find myself overwhelmed with the affair—consummated with generations of remembering.

On a breath of a thousand nights, I found myself insane and ran barefoot—wildly—through the woods—in an attempt to ease my pain—throughout thickly bladed grass that spoke my name—down to the marsh where the air was heavy with the song of the loon whom proclaimed evening and grieved aloud lamenting its sorrow—and I found myself home within the choir—cherishing the ensemble—sleepwalking amongst the grace.