Stark naked,
Lying on a cold hard floor.
Green and white tile spilled
With hues of the living,
Fallen from lack of strength.
Oh I feel, I do,
But my head's mixed up and
My heart's jaded from this
Mixture that we humans make.
I made this bed of coarse
Difference divided. I had to
Prove to myself just how far I'd
Fall apart. I lost heart in all.
I gave myself to the tidal tumble
Of fast and swift, effortless pain.
But this belief I hold to be so:
Let yourself lose control,
If only to regain the course most clear.
So I'll ride a wave a while,
And feel a mess, and lost.
But my heart might ache daily,
And I might feel like love
Up and left me,
Still I'll take the ride and smile
If I can. Some things will waver;
Not my journey.

Lay me in bed like a baby
And spoon-feed me a new reality;
I've been starving myself again.
If this awkward rhythm never ends then
I shouldn't bother pretending to be sane,
Rather just sink into the abyss of a stilted
Dream, one where I don't have to be afraid
About losses and gains, understandings and
Responses. Resolutions found by breath,
Sight, and movement alone.


Of course I've lost my way again.
Of course I've missed the point again.
How can so many others think of good in me
When I only know this insufficient being
Staring back that I see.
In a mirror,
In a pool of dirty water,
Used to be
A credible heart;
Now a vagrant,
Bitten by the bitter breed
Of lonesome appetite.
Better alone
Than cursing others.
Better this way.

You can't hurt
What you can't feel.

I am lone reed,
Dressed in frozen droplets,
Tumbled heavy by a breeze.

Wind cool slowly,
Drive the life inside all
But my own, so then show me

How to again
Make use of this lost heart.
It breathes a fire, it won't let go.

When the passing
Of this convalescence
Ends, I should make time to live.

-- --- ------ --- -- --- ------ --- --

"The sparrow tears the reed
But the seeds fly on
To begin again."

You were never so sweet as you were sour. And I was cold more than warm.

In the mirth and the mire,
Waiting through this patient fire,
Arrives an answer from above:
Much is struggle,
All is love.

And it were quick that
Burned their heart;
A sad spectacle, a flash, a
Ribbon, tightly lost
Inside a breeze.

This and many moments
Of purely joyous, expansive,
Intimate, felt, heard,
Awoken, laughable, sweet,
And so dearly loved.

It is but the sadness that's
The deepest form. It aches
As if you became it much.
Too much talking, not enough ears.
But love holds no limit in the singular.