I have to believe that the only thing wrong with this otherwise perfect turn of the french tongue is scale. There seems to be nothing small whatsoever in this cosmic game you and I play.
Calling out over and over in this most ultimate of ecstasies, there is no end, only endings. ‘Insatiable,’ your repeated murmur. ‘Greedy one! Stop anytime.’ I might counter in response, though only in my after-imaginings—there is no room for thoughts or words in this delectable dance of decease.
To see spellbound a sunset in shadows cast on a sunless day To hear ocean waves echoing through the hollow of a pocketed treasure To smell detritus and become overwhelmed with the beauty of life To taste manna flowing freely through throat’s caverns To touch the hand of the outcast and feel God reaching back To embody love so profoundly that these senses become limbs for the journey.
I should prefer they be called a congregation when they come together. Their gatherings hold all the essence of worshiping kin flocking together to sing and dance and feast. Loudly croning Jesus and Buddha and Crow in a language recognized by the attuned.
No, I should listen more intently and prefer their rightful name. A murder of crows. For in their conclave, the death of crow is imminent, Crow immanent. One becomes murder. As one, they attend. They become one, worshipping death and reveling in life. Wholly....
Let us not cast our gaze downwards as our fused humanity consumes as our shared divinity overtakes. Let each serve as guiding stars sherpas on this odyssey.
Let us sink completely. Consummately. For every constellation ever contemplated is consecrated in this one love story. And every love story ever imagined indelibly imbedded in the depths of our six starry eyes.