Propositions about
the afterlife are futile.

Do you believe in God,
heaven, clouds, harps and cherubs?

And then you die and discover
that you must lead many more lives
searching for perfection.

Do you believe in the Bardo,
in reincarnation, in the sweet
possibilities of getting it right?

And then you die and find yourself
on a fluffy cloud surrounded by
annoying cherubs whose harps are incessant.

Or will you become a mute patch of earth,
that is wet and dry and favored by worms.

I have closed the eyes of the dead
and all I can tell you is they were dead.

What happens after is futile surmise.

You believe or you don't.

But believing is not knowing.

And when you know, you will not say.

~mce

Fourteen, eighteen - far apart
Eighty four, eighty eight - same age

Connection
An indescribable fragment of life
A journey of finding ones split soul
To cherish and hold
And stain eahothers lips
To bruise eachothers hips
Dance under the glittering moon
Glittering just as heaven
No space,
just bones entwined amongst one another for no gap to be our solace.
Delight filling our stomachs
soft as mellow harmony
the saltiness of the ancient seas
For the warmth of love
And the love of warmth
As I touch your inner workings
I watch your powerful soul become tender
The symphonies sing
A bond of friendship, one so tenacious as vine
Our joy
In one another
For our love to last as long as the tides  
We are forever a connection within us.
Our connection as sacred as the stars.

Always

It's easy for you to speak
Because your black eyes always hold to what they seek.
You count off on your golden fingers in lists what you want,
And I tell you it's me who's as bland as pale typewriter font.
I can't just unzip the skin between my *******
And hand you the bleeding heart in my chest.
For that place has been soldered shut,
And the only way in is to cut.
It was my tethered hands that painfully made the seal-
Everyone mistakenly thought there was a piece of me to steal.  
I realized with broken car radios and muted clocks I only had what was inside,
And no treasure cats smile could ever paper cut this pride.
Your hands were made from the Sun,
Who made my battlefield and won.
And one day you will touch me and I will burn,
But you'll be too bound to your creator to ever return.

the old man asks his daughter
would i be a burden
when these hands can't feed by its own
this body is almost an inanimate mess
by its own can't move place
these feet can't walk to the toilet
on bed release involuntary waste
sit on soiled cloth and foul smell
would you come to my room
a hell smeared in ****** gloom
where now lives your father
who would just won't die
but in his eyes write a poem
from a piece of sky