I want to know
but at what price
the startled comfort
the fractured sight
no longer you
behind a tinted veil
no longer me
blinded by the dark
I want to know
a fool in a haze
induced by light.
A thirst for knowing is superb, yet I feel its vulnerability. The awareness of potential disappointment in finding at last what we spend so long searching for…and then what? Still, I want to know. Still, I feel compulsed to find and search.
Condemned to count each passing day
cascading forward, unrelenting,
as fading memories scarcely could allay
that dread of loss forever pending —
And yes the years do lessen yearning,
the solemn gift forgetting brings,
no longer first now in our thoughts
but daily still contend as second thing.
Shaking off the rust of non-writing takes time. First the formulation of the flow returns, however nonsensical the strings. Then the rhyme schemes slowly weave into their place. Finally, if at all, the images return. Sorta opposite how our memories play out, no? First, the images of events. Then the narrative follows. Finally, the supposed moral of the story. Just as I struggle with that last stage of writing, I struggle with the “moral” of our story. Alas, the sleep-deprived brain, where images and memories go to slowly fade away…
Divorced from frames,
the painting knew no boundaries,
save the edges seamlessly in blend,
aligned with wall’s all-whiteness.
Divorced from time,
a vow of love as much a chant,
and minutes stowed in idle sleep
recouped anew in flights of fancy.
I have a journey here to finish, a last hurdle to make 365. The “break” (is a slew of life events a break?) must end, as the journey too must end. Lots of rustiness to shake off, but hopefully plenty of ideas passively stowed away and stewing too.