I part a sea of troubles.
Cuddle fish interface;
diamonds on the shore.
The synaptic oasis,
free from difficulty or strain,
reveals exquisite shapes
scintillating geometrical configurations
that bestow a sublime hope
on all those who traverse the path.
When I travel it myself,
I consider the many who are lost at sea—
their shapeless present
without a vector or a sign
Will they find the talisman bodies
Will they imagine
the contours of the deep
and part the unfigured sea?
The day you told me
“don’t look back,”
I took a large step forward
down into the space below me;
not sure if it was a bossom
or an abyss.
One would purify
with an outragous intensity
while the other would preclude me
from finding my beginnings, despite
The bossom, a frontier in custody,
shelters my descent into solace,
nestling me into its thermal abode.
It nurtures me on the way down
to a different place—
a place where there’s little war,
and no disgrace.
My muscles relax as my skin
lulling me into lucid action
The abyss, insufferable and
swallows its victims whole,
leaving them desperate and unconsummated.
I would become like a broken doll,
incomplete and passively awaiting
judgement for disposal.
Here my feet never touch the ground.
Regardless of where I landed,
I somehow knew I’d be okay.
With all that I’ve done in this life,
I knew that I’d persevere,
and continue to strive,
All things alike;
to love all things the same.
God knows everything
and loves everything.
So, if you want to be omniscient,
or more compassionate;
make yourself One with God.
Simultaneously we came to the same conclusion; that everlasting dreams all eventually yield to a dying constant.
All the levers
we try and pull
when understanding one another:
raw and sore.
When you leave your words open
to aching implications,
I spin wheels of thread,
tying everything together
to hang it from my ceiling.
Listen to the trees–
how they speak while the wind carries their messages out of the forest to bounce off the pavement of suburban driveways and creep into the windows of dilapidated bungalows.
The trees’ words summarize nature’s secrets, including the travelers that have slept under their flourishing canopies, the unbounded dreams of those travelers, their monologues that they spoke out loud in an attempt to settle themselves when the darkness became unbearable and worrisome.
The most precious secret of all is in the precise interrelation of all life that lives in the forest. The trees speak of each symbiosis that promotes life.
Their words are quiet, but assured.
For hundreds of years the trees have built up steam, strength, vigor, and wisdom.
The trees sway in circles in a menacing storm.
They are not scared of tumultuous weather. They are not scared of anything. Embedded in their trunks, their courage mediates them to endure, to sustain, to not cower. They model resilience when during the fall their leaves break off, and in the spring they come back, just as vibrant and healthy.
And you, my dear friend, are like a tree. I know you will come back even though you left me–
abruptly, without explanation.
Each moment that passes–
an unforgettable stillness:
no longer wavering
and the cavernous walls of my imagination.