What is still out there
that I am yet to cry for?
Lie for? **** or die for?
What treasure lies buried in the folds
of a shifting world, tossing me
like a baby in a blanket
in the sea of storms and creatures
of all creation?
Is love what calls the hero forth
into the battles of the giants
stomping on the soul
and beating the heart with hammers
in the desert where we lie waiting,
cold and wise and old
and in disguise as sheep?
Is love out there?
Or is it in the night, breaking
silent suffering scarecrows
with the brothers of time
and screaming from the open sunroof
of a car overtaking dead midnight traffic,
waking the pastures of a reckless
and restless youth?
Is love what we were chasing
when we were racing?
Or is it something far above,
and beyond what we have yet become
as children in the womb
of life and sorrow;
will love find me in tears
of a final breath for all that was
lost in seamless sleep and
dreaming?