I came up from where
it was raining inside my ears,
I came out from where
everything was melting,
I closed that scene like a book,
the characters no longer marching
their abject stories
through my halls of mind

There is a truth
that nothing can  be written on  –
no ink, no etch, can mar its face –
it fills all consciousness,
so nothing more or less
is seen or felt or thought,
and everything abides with it in grace.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 27, 2022