Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
It’s raining
On just my side of the street;
Don’t believe?
Come, Come and see;
Feel the water,
Wet,
upon what was dry skin,
Feel my different perspective,
That is so close
But won’t touch yours ;
“Hey, what’s it called,
This anomaly?”
“The scientific reasoning?”
“And why you, not me?”
“Or does it even matter?”
Consider:
If you come over,
Is it still “You” versus “Me”,
When the rain is shared?
Hot with anger
The memories hit
And I’m taken back
Back
Back to when I was
Grasping for strands of autonomy,
Staking my claim,
Vouching for
My
Self,
And
Gaping
For the words that will hold
That will make my reality
Real
To
Someone
Else,
And I am voiceless,
Gasping,
Begging,
Please,
To see,
What I know,
To feel what I feel,
Gaslit,
And now I know it,
And the feeling is of airlessness,
Oxygen depleted,
Would this be more real if I were bleeding?
I am ill,
See it plain,
Believe,
I know my body,
This sick,
It’s not just in,
A figment of,
A skewed creation
Of my brain
My body is a liability,
I am diminished in my capacity,
As a viral assault occurs outside my door,
I am isolated by my own vessel’s vulnerability,
A contagion of which I fear to be host,
Inside my domain I am safe
Safer,
With potential hazards in every touch,
On every surface,
This is psychosis inducing phobia
to remain in such a context,
And yet here we all are,
In our mutual panic rooms,
Or out in denial of the risk,
We are unwilling hosts in waiting,
all,
Distant,
shut in,
This is the new
Real.
My government burned this week,
The fire has long been lit,
But it finally took off,
Swallowed in flames,
Our fears realized,
As we now walk scorched streets
Of an authoritarian regime,
Wondering how long it’s been like this,
When exactly the illusion wore thin,
Leaving us woke to the knowledge that,
Things are worse,
But they always have been.
Is love like a spell that we must invoke,
Does it lay in waiting,
Until it’s summoned?
Does it exist around us like air,
That we breathe in and out?
Does it only reside inside us,
As a system, or pump through us like blood?
Is love alive, does it beathe, but seem stationary like a tree?
Does it have memory, history like water in the ocean?
Does love evolve, like living creatures,
Or is it static, never changing, always being?
I know love,
but I also don’t know,
Love seems to be all these by things,
In and out of us,
Love a spirit, love a diety, love a force rooted in the creation of existence,
There are so many things I don’t know about this,
But I do know
I love you,
And that love
is.
To whom shall I ask the big questions?
The meaning of life questions?
The “why do we die?” questions?
Who might hold the answers;
The trees?
The sky?
The ocean breeze?
What will shepard me to the next plane?
When will my time come?
For I only know that it must come,
Reliable like the summer rain.
She of Letters 