To Find Words, Is To Find You, Is To Find Myself.

In my attempt
To conjure some words here and now,
It feels as if some beast,
Drinking by the riverside
Dismisses my grasp and want
Of submission.

I let leave the beast,
Let leave those words I need,
And walk onward towards
The never-ending horizon before me.
Distances covered,
Sunset settled to sleep
Beneath the soft clatter of my feet.
Stars break above me in the blackness,
And for a moment I feel them pressing down
As if in one swift strike
They should burn away my being.
But I further on,
In the primal dust of shear nothingness.
Forever searching for the words
I once remembered falling all over me
Like sprinklets, specs, and pieces
Of grass and water and sunshine.

Discovering a man upon himself,
That is to say, upon the bit of land he long stands upon,
Finding nothing before, beyond, or behind him,
Is to discover innocence evaporated.

From this land I now acquire,
Bereft of simple pleasure's aspire
I find no way to mimic lines
Without my doing them in the living day.
If we are those that spend
The currency of life in such a way
As to redeem a story or a thing to say
Then let us burn on with this fire
Or leave it alone for another's desire.