Within the expansion of time and space
Are designs of such grace and fragility
That a minuscule slip in the balance of cosmic,
Nuclear forces,
An imperceptible alteration of the alchemy that is creation
And there would have been nothing and no one to speak of
What it is

“To exist.”

Yes, there is some kind of faultless synchronicity,
A precision fit that
Holds all of

This

The exquisite symmetry of our spiraled, star swept galaxy.

And yet,
Among all of these elements, these forces, these pieces and
Fragmented masses
That seem to find a beautiful, celestial

“Fit,”

I cannot say the same for my own spirit.

I do not think I was well-made for this world.

If there is a home,
A warm place to actually rest
A lighted space in which my heart will not race
And continuously break
As things of substance reveal a mundane emptiness;
The charade behind this endless parade of life,

And when I kneel between the silent pines,
Just by the rushing brook,
And I think I can hear God speak,
If there might be a time that this voice would actually break
Through the deafness of common day,
So that, just once, I could maybe,
Truly understand what it is trying

To say,

And if I could just push the veil away and curl up within
The kind of love that stays;

Then, maybe I would think that I was made by the same forces of Creation that wax and wane the tides;

That beautifully align

The stars.

But right now it feels like any home is very far

Away  

And while, perhaps, there are spirits made just for this place,

I do not know if I belong

Anywhere

At all.