I

But where is it? And what?
The answers unknown area
built into us – bound genetically,
tied unfathomably to
our unsubstantiated spirituality.

What comes next? The same enquiry
cried in the dead of night
by the aged wanderer, traversing the
interstice
between this life and the next,

as by the youngest of those
beginning to grasp the finite
clutch we hold over time
and our animation.

II

What is death? But with that comes
its neighbour question, and how
to make meaningful this
limited hold -

do we clamour and claw for
the eternal? Or find our solace down here
where the ground is solid
and not nebulous
as it is up there?

III

Is it even up?
The theologians know, even
the everyday professors of faith
claim know as much, but I don’t.

On some days it is the height
of appeal; grandiose wonder and glory
wrapping us like a mother to her child,

but on others I wonder. There will be
no sadness,
no tears,
no pain,
but aren’t they where we find ourselves?

He will wipe away all tears,
but how then will I moisten my cheek?

IV

Is it real, even good, to dream
of a life with no misery?
Purity in bliss the rule, no defined
exception.

I have not found any answer;
if claim thee I am gratified to listen,
but I doubt it.

I know not the pulse of His chest,
rising, falling,
but I know He breathes.
I know not the direction of His dwelling either,
but it is there.

V

Maybe I will find no answer by searching;
He says wait, trust, believe,
and you will understand in time.

Sight has burned many a man
and caused hostility;
it is not in our way
to see and believe,

but only to believe.

No easy ends - no simple way
to create a finale
of all that feeling,
buried deep. Trapped.

The heart - conduit
of all the good, and pure,
loving and fair
in that childlike innocence,

but too the cage,
controlled, emboldened, refused
by the cerebral gatekeeper.

Why let that emotion
out? Is it self-sustaining?
Should it be?

Searching in the thickness of grime
and the transparency of glass
both to find that balance
between self and self;

the self that needs its own,
and the the self that needs
its other.

To what end is the search
viable, in being separate
from the internal pervasion
of anxiety?

What does it mean to err irrepressively
from one side
to the other -

a seemingly ceaseless internal script
written drunkly, incohesively
scribbled across the walls -

is it damage?
A calamity of mentality
and an unsaveable prospect
to none of earth - and perhaps she knows.

So many things to ask, each
with an answer he doesn't have
or doesn't want to, tied
to questions he can't put into words,

for her sake, for his, for fear
for love or selfish compulsion -
there is no knowing.

Wordsmith indeed, unable to weave
the most fundamental askings,
but foolish enough to think
he has done it in his moments.

The tale of saving the broken one
has outlived its life
at the forefront of storytelling.
And still, she saves him.

In every word,
every touch,
every grasp,
every time
and every day,
she saves him.

And to think herself the wrong,
to take on the trial - the insanity
of only the loyal,
of only her.

The story is titled simply:

a crooked man,
and the perfect lady.

To be with you, I am limitless;
unbounded and removed
from a life of simplistic servitude –
becoming anything.

And we could run, without
looking backwards or sideways,
only forward, with a glance here and there
at one another,

ensuring a mutual want of all things,
of the purity in our unrivalled experience.

And when you look to the stars, I will see
only you;
when you dance to the beat of the music
I will follow my tempo within

accelerating faster than mortal can move,
and I will trip as I hasten to match
my motion to the rhythm.

If I fall, I am happy
to lay on the soft, sweet grass
or the relaxed sands, dreaming,

listening to the sweet cadence
of your voice, tired and joyous
as you whisper to the stars,
sparkling for them,

watching the sky drift its daily path
of saturation and change, wondering
if it all looks the same elsewhere.

Maybe, as they say, the Monaco Harbour
lends its hand to the painting of the sea;
perhaps the red lights of Amsterdam night
amplify the deepest blues
in the corners of the atmosphere,

and when they dance in Barcelona streets
they may feel a oneness with
the thing itself:
interconnected meaning,
and life

but it is not for me.

I need no landscape or light paths
or luscious lakes in names of places
I cannot pronounce,

for every colour is already deeper,
the waters already pure, and the sands
already sweet, and the grass plain,
and comfortable

when I am with you.

I need not the magic of cities so fine;
when I am with you, I feel you and me,
together in a world wondrously
divine.

I call to you, with stars
in my eyes, and a hope
that takes over my timbre.
Giving voice to the void

that separates internal
from
external,
through the minuscule aperture,

like a photograph with no light behind
but only foregrounded you.
No leaves or trees or paths
or edits to the memory -

natural
and glorious
and vivid
and you.

You alone.

I call to you alone
when you are all -
marks of tread through my heart
and love, a whole lot.

All I need, and no less
despite the behavioural
incongruence (hushed
and veiled).

So much says otherwise,
but does not so much
say as such?

I call to you, drowning
beneath the surface of
a puddle;
no, a pool;
now a lake,

impossible to fracture
the top frosted over,
beating my hands endlessly against.
The water blue flows crimson.

My heart beats,
until it stops.
And in the quiet,
she breathes.

I breathe too, and
my heart restarts,
her exhales electrochemical,

jolting me to wakefulness
and bringing my heart
to life
once more.

It's the nothings, the calm,
just the way she is
that gives you the breathless love.

Let her in. Gosh -
just let her in.
Let her love you because
she does.

Oh, slow your heart
or she will know.
Slow,
or the dream will end.

Let her love you
without loving you
the same.

Let it be, ok?
Let it be ok.
Let it be.

There is love
and it is bright, vibrant,
and it will shine through
any darkness.

She is everything in herself -
let her evolve.
That is life;
that is love...

That is love.