Some people enter our lives
through the blind spots
while others are expected to exit
with their perspectives packed
on their backs or stacked in the
circular cracks of our own
rigidly-caged characters.
Those who enter may soon exit
because we’re fully-awake
to their hyperreal words and facts
but wholly-asleep to our own deep
tender-hearted spiritual selves.
We go months after months
waving
at fake-true entrances and exits
craving
a lasting moment of meaning—
stripped of strains and stains
and dipped neck-deep
in purpose and peace.
We often sit to reflect (or vent)
in a tiny corner-tent built of broken
olive branches collecting particles of dust.
We sit and unconsciously wait for the high
whistling winds to absolve
all of our inept illusions.
Then we recall Rumi who still walks
across the literate cultures of the earth
and sings in people’s folded ears
a timeless priceless couplet:
“The truth is concealed
in falsehood like
the taste of butter
in buttermilk.”