A dimming light

There are closed drapes

made of distance,

hanging on walls

made of looking out.

My gaze

unable to find a focus point

to end this blind search

for recognition’s sake.

Only the trees

as confessors for the wind

provide confessions or penances

as sorted whispers in passing

to calm this echo sense

of abandoned isolation

within the storyline

that dreams my life for now.

While the earth is forever

yet messaging my indifference,

it is its touch

I ignore with constancy,

that gravity never lets me forget

as the weight of my being

endorses my every lament.

If my spirit were lost

in the sky as home,

I would be blessed

and forego the religion

of desperate measures

that cue as next thoughts,

waiting for council.

But I have no motion

within the rage dedicated to me,

though I have adequately cultivated

slow shallow breaths

harbored as stolen goods

from the rot of failed escapes

to nearby wants

of distance and relief.

My surroundings are foreign

even to themselves,

and they for themselves

shudder at the thought

of being my providers.

For they fear I am a black hole.

A localized physics nearing

to compromise

their efforts into dust,

but I am a spineless tongue

coughing on these words

that gush out of me

as sanity’s keepsake

trying to avoid

a heart attack of loneliness

by the only action

that is medically offered my way.

There is no fading in or out.

This is all a compression train

slowly moving inward

as if volume was a gas leaking out

and diminishing space was time

trapped in an hourglass and filling.

I should soon be approaching

all of my life before my eyes

with one fell swoop

of soupy closure

and then dismissed.

I am up for that

as a vomit of life’s long distinction

and then be gone

but this waiting of itself

has its own repetitious biases.

I am possessed with no means

of signage to end this persuasion

so offered as for living.

Like I said,

the drapes are closing,

my gaze a coffin of oblivion,

where the wind prays

by shoveling earth my way.

I am my death by living on,

feeding off this dimming light

that will never be extinguished

but expand to a beyond

not measured by these means.

Singular distinction

as a revenue for us all

has given us reason

for doubt’s daily path provided.

Only in the exchange

of dimming light to dimming light

towards a oneness

does the opposite occur.

And we, as individuals,

to shed these bygones

of distinctions that come and go,

draw closer to an overture of living

that brings us illumination

in the form of a radiance

pouring outward and afar.

No more a diminishing light

looking for reference and reflection.

It is where we are one

is a deeper gravity and drawn-ness.

And our lives

are then an un-sourced applause

until we, as one,

are fully beyond that arrival.