Love (ideally)
should unite.
Resulting in
an incandescent flame.
Perfect.
Pure.
Luminiscent.
Love (ideally)
should divide.
Like
oil and water
barely skimming over surfaces
fearful of deeper explorations.
Love (ideally)
should be everything
and nothing.
It should make you
philosopher and poet.
Angel and demon.
Lover and loved.
Parent and child.
Friend and enemy.
Love (ideally)
should make you remember.
All that is
was
and will be
if only
you let go
enough to fall
in love.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Trails
It saddens me,
that you don't know yet.
That I will leave when the time comes.
The gentle breeze that stays behind me
and caresses your skin
is not some gentle reminder
or a pretty memory
it is a prelude
to a storm of anger
that will engulf your very soul.
Reach those depths
pull out the anger
and scream.
Call me names.
Cry.
Rage aloud my dear.
When I leave
what lies behind me is
such pain
that you will never overcome it.
that you don't know yet.
That I will leave when the time comes.
The gentle breeze that stays behind me
and caresses your skin
is not some gentle reminder
or a pretty memory
it is a prelude
to a storm of anger
that will engulf your very soul.
Reach those depths
pull out the anger
and scream.
Call me names.
Cry.
Rage aloud my dear.
When I leave
what lies behind me is
such pain
that you will never overcome it.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
A river
The pain of existence.
A holy man says it with all the seriousness of dawnbreak,
sudden in its gravity,
a comment that shakes the foundations of mundanity induced by routine.
A dip in the holy river,
that moment which would cure a soul of everything,
from past sins to past lives.
One dip.
Then this non-Indian-accented voice tells international television
that the river is the ground for pandemics.
Mystics threaten to drown,
sanitation workers on strike,
so much to care about,
merely administrative issues.
One statement stands out though
the pain of existence,
no one realises the reason
they make this journey
for one potentially fatal dip
in a vat of toxic waste,
but the pain of that existence is nullified
by one holy dip.
A holy man says it with all the seriousness of dawnbreak,
sudden in its gravity,
a comment that shakes the foundations of mundanity induced by routine.
A dip in the holy river,
that moment which would cure a soul of everything,
from past sins to past lives.
One dip.
Then this non-Indian-accented voice tells international television
that the river is the ground for pandemics.
Mystics threaten to drown,
sanitation workers on strike,
so much to care about,
merely administrative issues.
One statement stands out though
the pain of existence,
no one realises the reason
they make this journey
for one potentially fatal dip
in a vat of toxic waste,
but the pain of that existence is nullified
by one holy dip.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Abstract
It is an unseverable tie
that keeps our bodies together.
made from the finest distillation of ether
so esoteric
that one tends not to notice its presence.
But it binds
with all the firmness and unremovability
of a proper noun.
Once assigned
it signifies us
and simply cannot be unwound
and recoiled onto another entity.
This tie,
this bond,
this state of being
of longing
of wanting
of needing
of missing.
This state only cements
the unseverable.
imbibing the idea is key
to assent and eventual liberation...
that keeps our bodies together.
made from the finest distillation of ether
so esoteric
that one tends not to notice its presence.
But it binds
with all the firmness and unremovability
of a proper noun.
Once assigned
it signifies us
and simply cannot be unwound
and recoiled onto another entity.
This tie,
this bond,
this state of being
of longing
of wanting
of needing
of missing.
This state only cements
the unseverable.
imbibing the idea is key
to assent and eventual liberation...
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