Touch is an orchestra

Touch is an orchestra

playing the song

I am requesting

in response

to an inner absence

of singing.

For I am all these chambers within

provided with sacred bellows

that call out yet not knowing

what question will form.

I blurt out nonsequitars

that tonally say

what is impossible to demand

out of meaningful words.

These assertions as melodies

pass over my humanity

but yet somehow are submerged

never landing in my right mind.

Would I allow myself

these hymns to share?

You could overhear them

but only as a conjure.

I have animal magnetism

in my tissue.

I know what that has done

to people in the news.

I am not a curator

of the desire plane exposed.

I just have secret selves

that enjoy each other’s company

over time

and private recipes for sanity,

they commonly share

by mocking me.

Sometimes I feed a small self image

my doubts

then notice how trite

that process becomes

and I move away from it

by abandonment

for it is a disgusting mirrored account

that I privately manage

around the absurdity within.

I seem to be blessed

with an on-call buoyancy.

People are encouraged by it

no matter how short lived my delivery.

I can only privately answer to myself

with a false angst.

A rational truth will invade me

and I am cast out.

My private time declares to me

that I have more inner strength

than emotional fussing unveils.

I have a hobby of fretting

because it momentarily fills me.

It is a cheap sense of poignancy

and over easy to do.

I need to be struck down

with unprovoked acknowledgment.

A frightening slap in the face

of my managed façade,

a startup of ancient truth, center stage,

brightly burning down on me

by revelation,

as a long form

of an undeniable story of spirit.

This spirit,

I am holding within me as hostage.

I need to be touched

by a great otherwise invisible whole,

a keel of truth

to right my fantasy life from afloat,

for there are deeper currents I ignore

that guide me.

I am caught riding a groove

but not being the rudder.

I accept a pond as an ocean

and a rainstorm as salvation.

Omens come and go

in a breezy manner.

Where is the unavoidable within me?

I have a sense of perfect pitch

for deep sorrow.

Several octaves’ worth

mentally reside within

as disappointments drive me

towards higher cause.

I come from a long line

of chalice makers

and spontaneity is my constant forge,

be it metals, glass, pottery,

or clouds as fog.

I need to sip

from several of these

now for myself

and remember

that liquidity is my dedication

and that I am blessed

to work sacredly from within.

Touch is simply a privilege,

either given or received,

for it ignites the souls

without distraction

to the beings from within . . .