A girl named Karma met me on the road
She said, open your eyes when you’re through
Now burnt sage may erase a lover’s rage
And a pretty girl's face may seal your fate
One way or maybe two
We plucked flowers from her life like memories laid upon an open casket
Lowering ourselves into the ground, deep,
like a purple hue hanging on a spring time skyline
Now, I’m not sure why life lives on the edge of death
nor the reason why young people die
I suppose it’s just the way of things,
and that can only ever be the logical explanation for anything occurring here or anywhere,
physical beauty fades just as a sunset, and even if you capture a picture, nothing can replace that feeling of being there, standing,
baring witness to the all encompassing fruit of the immaculate conception permeating all existence,
like a deaf child struck dumb hearing his first sound
or feeling the wetness of rain
and smelling the earth after its fall,
I am
Now Karma, she said something so interesting to me
She said, you may not be here tomorrow
That’s the way it goes I suppose
One moment you’re here, and then you’re gone
Its all a surprise, even to the dying, but of course we’re all dying,
just some of us live along the way,
young death be a thief of sorts,
stealing into your home in the dead of night,
taking you abruptly like a dark epiphany,
robbing vitality, corrupting the seasons,
injecting nonsense into the blood stream of our way of things,
yet nothing he takes he wouldn’t get
So I ask you
How many nights will you sit beside a fire
feeling a part of the realness surrounding you?
When that crooked deal passes your way, and its time to count the chips, cashing in, will you be able to smile at the dealer and say thanks,
your tires swerving into a dusty stop like a heaven bound jalopy
come crushing through the gates,
leaping four steps at a time
Now people talk about what isn’t fair, but there is no such thing as fair
Just like some days it rains and some days it snows
Some days it’s cold and some days you can lay in the sun,
we learn to live in the weather
And some of us talk about it
and most of us drink water
These seem to be the way of things.
The paradoxical nature of the observer unable to comprehend infinite scale, yet still experiencing it.
We are names made of stars existing on a grain of sand,
our universe a droplet of rain in a spring storm,
yet boundless as an archer firing an arrow that never lands,
everything a larger version of something small,
everything a smaller version of something large
Within this paradox exists a search for meaning,
we all long to do things that speak for themselves,
the value being intrinsic,
like deeds of gold,
but after the funeral we realize the power of the word.
We promise every year to have a living funeral,
and be speakers for the dead,
detailing the reasons why we had love.
Now, I'm not sure what I like more
the taste of candy sweet or the view
but from her mouth I heard the sound
Don't do to me as I have done to you
So from this place I took a page
from the sinners oath of truth
kneeling down before barbed crown
feeling the subtle point slice through
Knowing what is said and done
will certainly cycle back to you
WIP, dedicated to Courtney Short's memory