As many ripples and visions
Of blueness as there are
Waves breaking
All loves,
Ever felt in this life
And the past and the next,
A distillation
Of moments that flip
The guts into a vortex of
Deepness never seen,
Never heard; only known,
Only now, no choice.
The force.
New water will direct
All four corners of
The soul that
Wander without berth
The nautics between
Doubt and sight,
Darkness and love.
She had bright
Red papier mâché,
He, a thick oak.
Between funerals,
The years, brittle,
Wan, now mingled
With the best ones –
Dusty joy,
Shared; striding, touching,
Swimming through the wind.
Some souls have
No spotlight
To make the
Dark Wicked,
Their bulbs stand
Up naked to
The whole room.
The body as vessel,
No, the body is
The contents,
The liver and tongue and
Gut are the filling.
Not just the brain.
Our soul cannot function
Through pain as it
Does in comfort but
Happiness pulls
The body out of
Sickness as sure as
Unhappiness pulls it
Down.
Dew drops came
Thick, sticky
Things in the mist,
Gone as soon as
Seen, washed
In the morning rain.
Inside,
His sorrow bled his
Soul and gauged
The pupils deeper
Through his eyes,
Bored through brain.
Pain pools welled
Round these holes,
And bounced
The light back, blue,
Ungrateful at the
Interrupted shade.
Thoughts welled up
Inside his head,
Of loved ones
Crudely detached,
Cords severed,
Mid-flight.
The restaurant
Dimmed, she,
Opposite, receded
Into Silence, as
The Past caved
In, confining him
To Memory’s passages,
Flickering, beckoning,
Grim.
Occasionally, sounds,
From above,
Outside the cave,
Her voice, something
Trivial, no guidance
Through these tunnels,
Only proof of Present
Beyond his prison,
Past.
Being Every Day 