Shtuff that is mine.
Far Under the Old Old Sun
It’s far under the old, old sun,
there is a heart to the heat.
Dust blooming like flowers of mist.
There is memory here,
and a tightening of breath.
And serrated edges that focus on the horizon…
… or point at the past -
it’s always hard to tell.
The day seems shorter still.
Somehow… Constricted at the pith.
There is truth to be found here - or so they say.
Maybe. There is a rightness to the thought.
After all, there is a feel of something…
at the edges - always at the edges.
Never mind.
This is what I choose to remain.
This and nothing more.
Weary
I have spent too much blood on this,
This scent of a lingering pain
that so much catharsis hasn’t washed away.
Visions and love I could speak of,
but to what end?
If you could just see, for a moment, how I see
I would show you a thing so tender and so true,
That you’d know belief again, and pain.
In every moment that we rebuild our certainties with the breath we draw,
I consecrate another brick to this.
But what could I build?
to what purpose?
How could I keep the soft summer rain
from washing away all that stands?
And I am weary. too much blood.
Too much that must be given, again and again
for an edifice built on sand.