Without Diluting Or Ever Leaving Poem by Mark Heathcote

We are all individual vessels of pulsating life.
Pouring from the same wineskin bota bag
into the same cup.
Mingling amongst the same ocean and stars
as separated waves, to-ing and frow-ing
to be different vibrations of the same instrument.

Leaping into the air or crashing ashore
in a hopeless futility to expand beyond our
means and knowledge or fall back unobserved.
But in any group setting,
there is the aura of the one in the centre,
we all gather around, hopelessly magnetised.

The one who fills the empty vortex
and leads the way or the one who
has fallen back so far, they've now become
the kernel of every atom and molecule,
the calm, the essence of tranquillity,
but each is a brother-sister to the other.

But only a few arrive at their designated core-
without the duality of peace and war
without diluting or ever leaving
the hand that pours the wineskin bota bag.
The vibration of the first lover's kiss - touching
the void and filling their cup to an even
overflowing fountain of love.

And make its rim - sing
like an orchestral symphony.
As invisible as the wind,
shaping just about every mortal thing.