Little White Book

My little white book--

I wonder what they think

as I carry it around

and hold it close to me. 

All of those people, 

near and far,

do they guess that the words

heal a world of scars?

Within these precious pages

the ink is wet and dry

(sometimes blurred by tears

from sad and happy cries).

The outside is white like my inner light

that shines in plain sight

at day, too, but mostly night.

That color though...

the white...

it's not so simple. 

It's really 

red, green and blue light

together!

So the fierce red I scream in my head

and the languid blue I slowly lounge through

and the kind green these eyes sparkle with you,

they all meet in the middle

and wrap around my book of treasures

encasing my words with 

an emperor's

new clothes

so that I can breathe

through

it

all.

The words are not important.

The feeling is what matters,

Is matter,

Becomes matter, after all.

Sometimes I just like to feel the

weight of the usually invisible white light

in my hand. 

The Creation of Adam. 

That inner Spark 

come into formation.

What rests on the page

no matter how curious and entrancing

will never be as important as the infinite vessel witnessing the written word

nor the one witnessing the writer.

The oneness of it all can only ever really be guessed at within and without

my little white book.