There seems to be
A persistent current tugging us
Off course,
Leaving us speechless
While watching our dreams
recede to impossibility.
It will take all our strength;
The straining of every muscle
of the imagination
To resist its inscrutable will.
One day, the world
Will dance for you,
So don’t stop your crying
if it can ease the pain,
Those puddles will grow into lakes
And the sky of your lifetime
Will silver in a waxing sun,
Bleaching dusk into dawn.
One day, you will carry
Their sand in your hourglass,
So don’t let the world sugar-coat your
Lemon-puffed eyes to stop the tears,
Breathe hard against the winds
Trying to catch you in a storm of
Foreign thoughts.
One day, your feet
Will lift from the ground,
So don’t let your heart become skinny
from spreading out too far,
Even feathers can grow heavy
in the pouring rain,
And singular exhales come
With a far too heavy price.
How is it to walk into forests
without a light ?
To stand tall and forget
To be afraid.
To break memories
Against rocks and learn
How to trust venomous snakes
Sleeping soundly in the grass.
Hope is a ghost town left to
Shine in gulfs of light
Sitting like a duck by the banks of an empty oasis
Waiting for someone to come along
And feed it crumbs of belief
To fill its belly with meaning.
Every night it was the same:
Abandonment. But, when I turned
Over, and looked at your
Sleeping face, it said the opposite:
Faithfulness. I still had to get up,
And watch the coming of dawn,
Even after the snow. But you
Always slept
Through the sunrise, even when
The seasons changed,
I changed, but you,
Stayed the same: cheeks
Glowing with summer and
Youthfulness,always ready
To crush the icicles in my stuttering
Breath.
I drowned myself
In the depth of you
And resurrected
As a constellation of Light.
In your labyrinth
Of added lives
I became lost
In your trackless breath,
I rose and fell,
Rose and fell.
Until I merged
Carrying your soul
Upon my back.
Sometimes, a love’s painful birth,
From a weary soul’s victory,
Over a life, whose shadows fling,
To murder a loss that wounds and stings.
Though, they may yield with the taste of tears,
A sorrow tucked
Behind the thistles of layered years.
For this,
He has forgone the shrine of youth,
to chisel grace
From the toiling labor
Of mining truth.
For only the wild will dare
To tempt the cruel decay
Of man’s cathedral mind,
And lift upon his beaten back
The sweet legacy of resurrection divine
And bend his worn-out quivering knee
To be knighted by Love’s sacramental
Alchemy.
