Life

in the morning, before the doubt,

before the poison, anything is possible,

the world is bright and new, fresh and alive,

but then like the morning it is gone,

as reality sets in;

I wait outside her domain like a dog in heat,

I listen to her voice pounding within,

like ocean waves on a dark angry night,

she holds me in arms of shifting winds,

without shape or form;

life is full of so much wasted time,

wide open spaces and moments in between

the only ones that count, long drawn out hours

of insufferable boredom, highlighted by

seconds of indescribable pleasure;

life is a never ending orgasm,

working and struggling, building and rising,

working for just one short burst,

one quick release;

I want a place to hide, a shelter from the storm,

safety in the wilderness, a home within the night;

what words can be said for this?

what salvation, what mercy, what redemption?

there are places where hope does not walk,

places where love has no home,

where light does not shine, truth does not speak,

down here words fail, seasons become blurred;

is it wrong to give up?

is it wrong to let go?

we come so close, reaching and touching,

knowing and seeing, hearing and feeling,

so close, yet so impossibly far,

flowing like underground rivers,

hidden, alone;

silent;

fires burn bright, stars blaze through the night,

yet we see only the shadows, moving through rising tides,

surviving extravagant excess, hiding among the corners,

day after day we wait, as miles become like dead stones

wrapped around the necks of fools and lovers,

hour by hour we survive, selling flesh inch by inch,

smiling at reflections in the dust,

crumbling before the edges, with nothing in return.

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