This Possession of a Life


I am waiting for a feast that never came
It never arrived and I’m sick of waiting
I’ve been so patient my entire life
Loving a thing that was never meant to come
* * *
It kept me hoping that things might get better
A house of windows, a reply to a heart-felt letter
Never read, a vision never truly disappearing
Of what we thought was the meaning of our lives
* * *
The feast that I am waiting for is impossible
Our masks postpone it indefinitely
Empathy is imperfect and desire leads us astray
And I never was very good at finding common ground
* * *
It’s below zero and the chalk of my poems has run dry
For a good few more than months or years
All the celebration in me has died like an old flower
Into stains of history and a corrupted Earth
* * *
We burn ourselves up in our brief conquest of life
Like a lover, we squeeze every ecstasy from their
Shuddering bodies, every last drop of intensity
We beg for something so totally fulfilling
* * *
But the feast was always a product of our minds
The prize was only a figment of our imagination
The union and sex and spiritual rapture only petty symbols
Of all a human being can do or feel or have.

The Endurance Within Us


We are as names swallowed by the cold
Haunted with the vowels of our experience
We linger in the darkness only to
Decline in the human years of our fragility

* * *

The skies of the wintry sun don’t etch our figures
We are spiritual and temporary as bodies
Star-stuff in our molecules of enchanted matter
Our thoughts bleed universal truths repeating

* * *

Our genius and trials completely unrecognised
Invisible below our surface of privacy and guilt
The years do not succumb to heart-beats
They only accumulate like forgotten madness

* * *

We’ve become as samurai for private causes
Pet crusades, the things we cherish, the few people
The tribe which we associate our blood and water
The vulnerability of our highest aspirations

* * *
We profit from the belonging we create
That which we tell ourselves is significant or important
What we find beautiful is not uniqueness
But something far more superficial and primal

* * *
We are like dusk blowing in the light
Haunted by the framework of what we believed was real
We thirst for light along the paths
Feeble and shuttering, we long for something more.

The After Memory Feeling


For once, I will be left with the shock
Of having lived, and loved in vain
In a series of lives that I was cruelly spoken to
Where even my beloveds, would push me away

* * *

I will not settle after death, you know
I will move from star to star, crystal in hand
Shade of all the eyes I have loved
And it will be perfect then, to die

* * *

And I will not regret suicide, not regret suffering or any meeker joys
The rose spells do not forgive, we only forget
Our hearts will, I Swear it, resemble the torn pages
Of memories, drifting apart barely

* * *
Remembering the taste of our sorrows and failures
That will be it then, a sudden departure
The lift of the blue flame that bid us farewell
From deep inside our dream, I will not have won today
But it will be the end, and all ends taste the same.

The 10th Day of Trials


After a black day, there is no forgiveness

Only the solitary confinement of our mind

And prayer, I feel the little warmth of my hands

Not that I have skin, only a kind of soul –

 

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It’s not what I would have expected, blank

There are no keys left, no passengers, no partners

Only the brevity of this, the journey that felt like nothing

That sounds that led to the sound of falling rain

 

  •                                 *                               *

The way I fell asleep to not hear or hold my own tears

There are no pockets of music, of pillows of love

Only maybe, the sound of myself breathing, the beat of seconds

I lasted as long as I could, given to foolish courage

My calm was a kind of white shade, the devotion for other things

 

  •                                       *                                     *

 

That I myself possessed, it wasn’t that I felt no hungers

For the wider world of experiences, but I couldn’t afford them

I had my obsessions and inner dictates to attend to, and they were rather considerable

The movements and acts of love, they were silently expressed in me

But so passionate, so invisible, so faithful to their course

That I could feel them embrace me like their own curse.