Philosophical

You run your sweet little finger tips along the finely lined grooves 
You do it always knowing to close your eyes in order to focus 
You know time is passing and as slowly as always it is there too soon 
Feeling the panting breath as it passes from the wanting soul 
Sounds like casual talk I mean to feel the air blow through me 
Mute words reverberating from the text and not the vocal cords 
Find you milling about articulation in my thread 
Dear silver thread I weave to send from our eternal work 
Making space as the crafters of space and dimension dying in the One 
For set aside the latter lasting given for the generation to come 
A sweetness it is to die to leave space for another to inhabit 
This world where four dimensions seem so simple compared to emotion 
For we are those who built the first four and the rest, the fifth 
And on

Making Space