I wake from life, the sleeping of the soul.
A body now before me, still in death:
A boy turned man turned corpse, and now the toll
Of measured time; serene and spent of breath.

In thought without a skull to harbor thought,
Reflection and conviction now refresh.
All Earthly duties, unfulfilled, shall rot;
Life’s aspirations fading with this flesh.

No blood to carry chemical caprice,
I witness being, true divinity:
At last as spirit, I arrive at peace
And join the energy, infinity.

In life, the sleeping soul is ever tried,
And waits for death, when life is justified.

I am seeking in life another body to help validate me;
To move my spirit from thinking that all I am is
This insignificant spec of dust floating in a vastly empty universe.
All I am asking for is someone with whom to exchange
Conversation, hopes, dreams, fears, woes, and comforts;
To exchange glances, gestures, touches, and ****** fluids;
So that my brain receives the chemicals it needs
To feel a sense of happiness, of purpose;
To give meaning to my existence through collaborating,
Overcoming the deathly gripping reality, the notion
Of feeling so small and insignificant;
So that I don’t have to dwell on the fact that all we are is
A spec of dust floating in a vastly empty universe,
Hoping our presence can be validated by the mutual exchange
Of conversation, hopes, dreams, fears, woes, and comforts;
Of glances, gestures, touches, and ****** fluids,
So that our brains receive the chemicals we need
To feel a sense of happiness, of purpose.

Is this what love is? Or simply the kindness of small persons
Helping to distract one another from our shared worthlessness?
What then is love? If not the gift of blindness to our cruel fate, lending
Some sense of meaning that we give ourselves in such hopes,
Then what instead? What greater gift could be received from another
Doomed human spirit than the ignorance to turn us from the coldest truth:
The acceptance of an existence void of purpose, justice, and answers?

I measure my living in learning and loving.
I measure my learning in yearning
and my loving in learning; but
I never measure my loving in yearning
for loving, for I'm
never learning from yearning for love,
nor learning loving from yearning.
I'm learning to love and loving learning loving; but
I'm yearning to learn to measure what I'm earning
from learning to live, love, and earn love
instead of learning to yearn for life
lived without learning and loving.

I know the way our fingers have mingled;
I know our lips can play
and our eyes can trace the cross of
interlaced limbs.
But I wonder often
if our dreams, too
can ever weave just as so,
like branches of a tree
we somehow both envision.
Who knows?
But what marvelous dreams
could become if only
a twisting embrace
were our sleeping, drifting
minds.

I am made of earthly fibers
Human fears and human features
I'm designed for entertainment
People toys for mindless creatures

Faces pass by the millions
I see the lives I cannot live
I see the many I could be

If only weren't I stuck in steel
Nothing here is even real
Days of hours of my routine
Self-destructive programming

I am made of thoughts and actions
Tracing circles, running in place
I reset when you round the corner
Ready for the next new face

Lovers pass by the millions
I see the lives I cannot live
I see the souls that they can be

If only weren't I stuck in steel
Nothing here is even real
Days of hours of my routine
Things I've heard and things I've seen
Always to be what I've always been

Tonight I stand alone
In the greatest silence
   I have ever known
I feel the air as
   soundless as
The darkest eyes,
The longest roads,
The emptiness of time

The sheer velocity at which
the nothingness reverberates
Assaulting with the
   gentle grace of
   absolutely everything
that is possible in this
Silence, here

No noises of anxiety
This quiet animosity
This moment of clarity

Life is about the little things
Sometimes we forget the simple joys;
Seeing strangers laughing strangely,
birthday drinks, the beauty of wings;
Doors that creak, trinkets and toys,
Separating the laundry piles,
Umbrellas blown inside out,
Little girls running from little boys;
Cloudless skies that stretch for miles,
Captive ears when a choir sings,
Jiggling the handle before a flush,
Summer sprinklers, produce aisles;
Who we are is how it brings
Us closer to the little things