humans, like chalk
on the blackboards of life,
are telling trails,
that crisscross each other,
as each day's daily weave,
as the fabric woven of empty dreams.
yet to be used as the covers
for this next nighttime's warmth,
as if the darkness that comes
will offer this,
as a silence reprieve.
is horizontal ever a state of mind?
where like glaciers melting,
in the warmth of an open sea,
the truth comes from all around
yet inside the out to become.
and surrender is only the past
forgetting its posture and stance.
to be molded out this next moment's press,
as if to wake up the dust of the night,
as if now's the fertile ground of reimagined.
does a sane mind ever really read
between the lines?
find meaning in the empty spaces
between the spoken,
where emotion lives
without adequate representation?
where emotional flow postures,
as the still waters showing face?
as if in dialogue with the sky,
is the only offering,
as commentary to be made?
yet talking to oneself,
apparently accomplished this task.
what's it like,
when meaning comes
to the end of the road?
the momentum of understand,
as the carriage comes to a halt?
one gets out of their head
to just stand there,
in the vast lay of the land,
the bask of self-movement set aside,
movement of notice,
comes in the form of sight-whispers,
as facials exchanged
do not tell their story.
there is want
for punchlines and assessment as closure.
but nothing comes
in the form of spoken-ness as self-impactful.
the thaw of self
from the sensory input occurring,
becomes the whittle-down
of human isolation's stance.
there is choir of motion, sight and sound.
the sensory invited slowly becomes evident.
time will eventually hand over the songbook.
relaxation allows for the singalong.
for there are melodies yet without words,
choruses without the feel of repetition
and music as if heartfelt,
allows for the sing along . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment