Tears of Pure Emotion
********

Tears of pure emotion rolled over his cheeks
Taking out the lava of pain down onto the earth
His revival now solely depends upon the way
He manages to carry on in the aftermath
Of the eruption of the volcano, called emotion

You're not here with me doesn't
Necessarily mean
You're not with me
I know you're always with me
Whether it is here
Or somewhere else.

Death separated
Our bodies
Not the spirits, the hearts
Your existence
In the space-time
Once or thence
Enough

I'll lead my life
Till the end
In the name of the best within Us

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

On Monday I bury the last of my dreams
And give up my hopes for tomorrow.
I do what’s required to look in the glass
Resigned to become friends with sorrow.

On Monday I’ll pass over white and wear black
I hear the prediction is rain.
I’ll pray for the sun and prepare for the clouds
And seek out small joys in my pain.

On Monday it all takes a turn for the different
Will it get better or will it get worse
I’ll gamble my future on staggering odds
With nothing to save me but verse.

On Monday my heart will have gone somewhere else
As my will walks me into that room
And my mind searches vainly for some safe escape
From the depths of my self-tunneled tomb.

On Monday I’ll stand up and do what I said
The chips must fall down where they may
I’ll carry it through, though I’ll wish I were dead
It’s a price I can nothing but pay.
lsj

That song stole my sleep
Have to wake up all night

Nectar she might have drunk
For love's flowing from her voice

Drenched I am in that rain
Forgot all my pain

Bliss is all I can feel
Light's all I can see

In between time, have I wondered through dimensions of sacredness.

Between the spaces of unfrozen relic of us.

It was both pure and holy,
Untampered by the cold seas of dark night.

One day, might I lose to the wilderness of nature, to the untamed creatures of worldly beings, will you recognise me?

Every now and then, have my thoughts keep tangling themselves, from nothing to everything, from making sense to nonsensical.
From flowery visuals, vividly in shapes.

It was both pleasure and pain,
Unnamed by the strong winds of feelings.

And one day, might I fall out from these untimely moments, will you be there to save me?

This is the epitome of hopelessness, hoping for mere dreams to become a reality.