Is life but chance?
Is mind but brain?
The soul but shadow,
Formed hopes dream?
Or maybe more,
Man's latent gift,
Man's hopes and fears intermixed?
Is all one,
If one is all?
Does one have reason,
Purpose for all?
With realisation paid and brought,
Enlightened peace,
Comes peace with all.

To touch the infinite
With one's soul,
To fathom a universe
As yet untold

midnight hair, cascades
(is caught)
flush against alabaster skin,
blood red lips bloom with sudden ferocity
in their bed of purest white, so they stand
as stark as fire - caught within nights place.

azure pools, uncertain, questioning,
bleed their colour down ****** cheeks
carving lines of loss and love, and
catching mornings light:
flaming and sparking in each sob.

such sudden, sad, and awful beauty
catches at this now flat heart.

so that now, even across the many years
and paths and unforeseen changes that
life has laid before my tired feet,
this picture lingers still, perhaps
caught within some ebb of memory,
flotsam (seemingly forever) anchored
to my perception of irrevocable loss.

intentions,
they sometimes get the better of me,
such that
my automatic, lie-down attitude, sees.
sees me standing here: searching,
desiring the vastness of the open sky
(and beyond), yet:
at each point of involuntary contact,
i find myself embracing the ground,
and during this disjointed,
increasingly frantic
(often disassociated)
illusionary dance,
i sometimes glimpse
the shadow of such unknown wonders,
brush their shape with open hands,
before blindness claims me once more.
such mini discoveries
(or mini-delusions to the minds of some)
keep open the bud of childlike wonder,
starving off decay, and
total submersion within the blindness of
societal preconception.

the creases worn upon my hands -
stretch back,
run the course of lifetime past,
others shaped as they shape me
and
contra to erosions role,
the lines, they deepen, expose the soul:
unlikeness built, carved egos sum,
a monument to blindness done.
but times advance, quells not critics eye,
erosions role resumes anigh.
and what i am, i have become
is carved away - rent to the dust

vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
cynicism scrawls the map
leading to my resting place,
a symptom of a drying mind,
what once was fluid, now is blind.
each denial of childhood dream
fractures now my world it seems.

mothers tears dried in her grave,
childhood view: never saved.

a surge of grief washes my senses,
seeming to ride the dim,
blue, evening light, and
suddenly i realise, that
this moment will soon be over -
never to be replayed,
that this life will soon be over -
always to be forgotten,
and that which i am, will fade -
dissipate -
end.
caught forever, light is frozen on my eye, a picture of you
arms stretched, evening light tracing your pink flesh,
tracing your face, and
reflecting back at my own eyes
so that i may construct you
experience you internally
(for that is all we ever know).
the very same light that washes your body, also
washes my mind
yet, forever and always, we are separated
by the width of a single electron.

the sun, in harsh stroke,
cuts a sharp line,
breaking the dawn leached wall.
your hand, caught in this sudden brilliance
throws stark contrast to the darkness,
resting quietly over your sleeping form.
motes of dust rise, hang, and then fall,
pirouetting on invisible breeze, and
occasionally catching the light
so that for a moment,
it seems as if you are holding
ephemeral pieces of
the very sun itself.