As a small still pool, by which I have sat
in time of contemplation,
there is a depth to your soul not reflected
by early light on the silver face of water.

Across ethereal expanses of being and meaning
have we endured, my friend,
sharing in the very abrades and erodes of evolution,
the eternal placental contractions of ontology,
and always have I felt well met
in your silent, absent company.

Glad am I that you were born unto the world
without the weeping fickle vagina,
for had it been so, too many mingled curses
formidable beyond the faculties of mortals such as we.

And so I call you brother, for indeed are you
the kindred of my own souls flesh,
And too have you been crafted by that
cruelest of psychic sculptors, that sadomasochistic mistress
we experience only as 'difference'.

I feel the breeze upon your thinking as the
strong stone walls long grown from defence to prison fall,
to leave you writhing and exposed in all the
frailty and the glory of your perfect yearning humanness;
and I rejoice in the skin of my brother which is stretching
tight over new-born bones of perception,
and therein, truth.

Welcome home brother, back to the path where weary footfalls
are the silent signature of the good fight.
Welcome home brother, where you are known and received
for who it is that you truly are, and will be forever becoming.