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v V v  writes:

“It is quite amazing to me that everything in life, love, relationships, survival, progress, growth, etc. .. it all boils down to some type of sacred balance.. a balance that is extremely precarious, and fragile... even the known universe follows a sacred balance, the seasons, the tides, day and night, if any of those balances slip, we no longer exist.. fascinating and brain bending truth”

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3:27AM

there are somethings you just know

read the words above, without hesitation,
knew therein lay a poem co-missioned
that required instantaneous creation,
as if it was a observable commandment
that need instant gratification,
nay, more so,
a relieving, an unburdening
a lifting of a hearty blockage impeding,
distressing my existence

perhaps
our lives are a life long attempts
to keep
A Balance,
our individual and mutually conflicting
of-all-our-imbalances,
as they intersect and sway,
on a flood plain, ever unstable and shifting,
so many eddies colliding on the surface of a mighty river

yes, there is something otherworldly here,
yes, even sacred,
in the finest sense of that overburdened word,
so oft overemployed that
one man’s overburdened sacred
is another’s overworked profane

but sacred is sacred

at a level just above our collective reach,
is an aspiration, a respiration and exhalation,
we unconsciously try to time our breathing in coordination
with our surroundings,
grasping, gasping, grabbing
for understanding, micro-management of the minutest
current of water or air running contrary to the main current,
that we plunge willingly and willfully into

when we open our eyes
every morning
and confront a new array
of illusions, allusions
and conceive our own illustrations,
and paint our lives and every act
on a corner of fresh page of a giant, ponderous
tome
(or tomb, if you prefer)

I know you understand.

in a few hours, I will rise to
be confronted by chaos and challenges,
armed with bits of strings, tape and bows
to wrap them into a cohesion,
to present them to you,
insert them into your eddy,
and in the froth of poetic collision,
is our constancy of connectivity and breakage,
a perpetual reformation

so that we may
mind-bend into each other,
verifying our mutual dependency
and saying together,
out loud and silently

we exist,
we edit,
our eddies,
our overlapping lives,
in a never ending series
of Venn diagrams
all delicately balanced
at a single point,
forever transitory and reforming
our language of calculus
on a curve of constant change.

In sanguine devotion
I give this body
for your
consumption
until my river
runs dry
until my soil
grows barren
until my sky
turns ashen
until my blaze
fades to ember