original prose – Page 7 – Back to the Monastery

my dreams have taken flight

but sadly,
I have not.

should you come upon them,

hold them close
hold them tight

for you are one of them.

I am the sand
that lovingly
worms its way
between your toes
as you carry me
with you
where ere you go
my journey is
at your command
I leave no footprints
in the sand

what becomes
is a process
that starts with
what is and
what was

there is no map
no time limit

save the setting
of ones sun

as a means to know
the journeys done

Monday mourning
8 am
my soul search
in vain
with closed eyes
i seek
with closed mouth
i speak
waiting alone in fear,
why, i do not know.

the sun sets on
another day
and I watch
from the window in my room
the lights are off
and I can hear music playing

a Jackson Browne song, I think
but I can’t hear what he’s saying
maybe it’s something
I’ll remember tomorrow
I vaguely recall
a fountain of sorrow
and somewhere in the sound
somebody’s turning ‘round
to see who was behind her
who did she see?
what did I hear?
the hollow sound
of my own steps in flight
good night
sun

Though grief is but a conduit
through which our pain must flow,
it’s wellspring is the darkness
where I do not wish to go

time, laying fallow
unspent and misused.
seconds, minutes, hours
lie naked and abused

I want to crawl
across your skin
one pore
at a time

grasping
those silken hairs
that so elegantly
caress you

and become
one of
them

a cold windy day
almost December
I’ve got nothing to say
or else I can’t remember
what it was
that was welling up in my heart

it was right there on
the tip of my tongue
something to share
that got lost among

the clutter of the day

the clutter of a life

the clutter one collects
on the edge of the knife

only serves to hide
what is important

you know that it’s true

what is important
to you?

we stand upon the precipice
of what will
or will not
be
neither is an option
we are allowed
to
see