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This is my book of poetry that I hope to eventually publish with photos. |
| I'm late. Isn't that always the way it is? I can call out to love, but I am always late. I can hold onto fantasies, but I don't have dreams. I'm breathing under water, I'm drowning. In a factory, it is conceived, and the machine spits out mediocrity. Over and over and over again, the same, no change, boring. Life surges and declines, and sorrow hunts until it finds, new souls, new hearts, me, laying out its bitter bait of tears. We could only wait so long, before choosing to move on. We could only dream so long, before reality took away. It's small things, maybe vapid, maybe hope can conjure love, or no such thing can be allowed, because darkness is a heavy cloud. Incantation, spoken by memory, lost in me, over here, over there, wherever. Do you need me to reveal the darkness? Broken, shattered, chaotic, lost, words kept in a box in the dark. Who can see? Who can know? No one. No one. In a Buddhist temple, on a busy train, in a crowded restaurant, alone in the rain. There and here and everywhere and nowhere. It isn't the where or the why, but the who. Every hand has scars and wounds others, but heals, too, when love discovers. Care and compassion and vivid life all come, not to many but at least to some. She took the pipe out of her mouth, he took the needle out of his arm, she broke the stigma with her love, he discovered himself in the truth. Yet others remain imprisoned and lost, and others dare not hope for much, and every passing day harbors nightmares, and every deep night offers dreams. Do you know why? Do you even care? If empathy has died, what can be expected? Sometimes life is underwhelming, other times it's startling. It's lived, regardless, good or not, until the day it ceases to be. A sword to cut through the mess, separate and remove and cure and cleave. But the wielder brings pain or peace, and sometimes it's me, cutting my own soul, wounding myself, removing healthy parts in fear, sometimes it's you, hacking and wounding, leaving pain and blood everywhere. How long does it take, to grow, to heal, to believe, to live, to love to see? I may never know. ... September 10, 2019 Starbucks @ Jing'an Temple Crystal Galleria Using a writing app for prompts to start each new stanza 1. I'm late 2. in a factory 3. we could only wait 4. incantation 5. in a Buddhist temple 6. she took the pipe out of her mouth 7. Do you know why? 8. a sword 9. How long does it take? |
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