**** those clichés I never thought would apply to me,
But my love ebbs and flows unchecked   as routine keeps its hold
But on days like these when the whirlwind stops
And as your lifetimes coalesce into a loveful mass
A plumb line is thrown and tells of a soothing depth
Which, on this day of rest, I sink into.

Basking in a borrowed light...
too short is the conjuring of joy
while infinite degrees of freedom
tumble tombola-like elsewhere
out of sight and out of mind
Can there be beauty in the rot?
Is that not enough?

I had forgotten that such silence existed
one that lets me hear so much
over distances my senses cannot gauge...
the bark of a dog doing its job
the clanging of trailers and gates...somewhere.
Birdsong, of course, is a constant
But I leave them to it...no need to disturb.

Not a socket in the house is on by the way
a sudden Sun generates comfort enough.
No Telly, no phone, no radio required
instinct tells me to hear the quiet...
better to receive than broadcast.
A bright orange book lies beside me:
It confessed all to me this morning.

I'll remember this silence always.

The ponderance of non-existence
depends on the soul's resistance.
Is death an altered state,
or is unknowing nothingness our fate?