carry on in a language far older
than any cognizant creature
is capable of understanding.
The fear of rejection, the fear of failure,
the fear that we are misguided in intent.
Stumbling through light and dark
our elbows still strike nerves described
as bones that clearly have no concept
of humor or anatomy.
I talk of dreams as though they were children
left at home with their Mother,
that perhaps, if I talk about them enough
will materialize.
I have no problem dreaming
by day or night. I don't need to be asleep
to let my mind untether itself from concern.
It seeks you out, or at the very least,
the memory of you, the ideal you
I remember. My mind can be a fool
but it can also see beyond it's impulsive
desires. There is that which holds meaning
beyond idealized memory.
Memory is subject to revision
but what else can we call forgetfulness?
I am a house not yet finished.
There are no panes of glass
in my unfinished eyes.
There is wind and sun
and night
pouring through my incomplete
body. There are blueprints
at the ready for when the crew comes back
and finishes the work that remains.
Forgive me
for being less than what I wish to be.
I take that back.
No one should apologize
for their being.
We are as beautiful and whole
as we were meant to be.
The waves of the sea
do not need to worry of the water
at the bottom of the world,
it will surge forth in time
and take it's turn upon the sand.
I look out beyond my eyes
and try to look past my limited view
of the horizon. Must the world
always be so terribly beautiful?
It must be terrible
and it must be beautiful
at all times
to everyone
for all time.
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