for Tom

Tired and stretched past your reserve, you come finally to the sought for King's pond.
Dark, but not in the off-told way; this darkness is the color of waiting. Still.

The sword falls. You are the stillness waiting. Empty.

The vessel.
And now the blessing.
Growing only in forgiveness in every breath.

"All paths lead to Allah" the dervish winks, and tosses the book into the well.