As water falls

Moments like these
teetering on the edge,
nearest to death
we feel most alive.
So easy to slip makes
our grip that much tighter
when hours ago, I could see
no point in carrying on
a powerful awakening
of all senses through
nature grounds me to
the here and now.
If I could live like this forever
I would not know sorrow,
only joy and nostalgia for
the sublime.
This feeling pressing upon my
chest, sending chills down
my sweaty spine
lends me a euphoria
no drug can mimic.
Let me lay my head near
the running river so I
may rest, alive, in peace.

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Not sans foye

As I sit on the banks of the river wide
I think, maybe this time, I won’t go home;
I see the birds and wish I could fly
To a place free of cares, free of sorrow
Free of knowing.

Sometimes there’s sorrow in knowledge;
Whoever said knowledge is power, may
Have hit on to something
For where there is power, there is often
Loneliness.  And when I know, I am sorrowful.

As Eve did eat of the Tree of Life,
So I have partaken of her meal.
And I do not know where my sin does end,
But I wish to drown it in the water
Dancing at my feet.

What cares does it have?  What does it feel?
Naught.  Though it holds so much,
And appears so wise, so bold, so strong,
Full of control – of life and death.
It is nothing.

I, on the other hand, often feel like
Nothing, even with my knowledge.
I feel like I should leave this place.
It feels unsafe to be alone when
There are so many sounds and voices –
In a band – drawing near.

I do not wish to be overtaken,
But I can feel this world
Pulling me deeper and deeper
Into its murky depths
Trying to make me unknowable, and not to know.

I dream of Fidessa, yet live like Duessa,
And though I may fool some,
The one who matters sees through
The foggy blanket I have knit
To hide myself from all.  And so I’ll fall.

But still, there is hope.  There is light.
Even as I sit in the darkness,
The moon and stars have not
Left me completely and they
Shine down on me.

Like some unseen hand, pulling me up
From this din and irksome mire,
I will be saved; I will not be buried alive;
I will not be burned in death.
I will be washed clean.

As I stare into the river, as I see where
My present meets my past and future,
As I see the mud settle and the water clear,
As it stands still and becomes a pond,
It’s not moving, nor drying up.

Something mystic happens,
And I can realize all is not lost.
I can’t save myself, nor can I others.
But I can know all is not lost if I am
Not Sans-Foye.  I know that I have faith.

Soft Afternoons

It’s that glimmer of hope
that gets caught in my throat
when I see your words
or hear your name.
Something that could have spilt
from your very lips
was caught on a breeze
that drifted past my ear
one soft afternoon.

Shadows playing on a baby’s face –
you probably could have painted
something more unique than
that shit, but I just thought
of you and didn’t care,
not even of the crying or noises
at the park,
one soft afternoon.

The grass blades on my hand,
made me think of every time
we experienced our senses
at a greater height
to have them
fall
.     fall
.             fall from a greater
height, than sheep have known,
even on a soft afternoon.

Clouds in the sky, in my room, in your eyes
in our throats, in your hair, in my nose;
coughing, seeing, laughing, loving,
holding, blowing, thinking, knowing,
and questioning all that we
thought was wrong,
on a soft afternoon.