Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
I am tired,
Of the painful ache,
Of just,
Just always being out of reach of
A goal,
A something
A something good
That I have patiently waited for…
Desire is a sort of test,
A distraction;
What is not meant for you
Will not come,
No matter how long one waits;
What is meant
Will not pass you by.
Patiently, I bide my time.
I imagined I would be
So much further by now,
But of course,
I always take
The long way around;
No shortcuts had on this journey,
Yet, I will get there,
Surely it can not be much longer
To final destination as yet unknown
As detours redirect the trip,
The plans change with the path;
I need just reassess
Be at peace with any delay
And keep on
Keeping on,
Learning as I grow,
As I go,
Each moment closer
Than the last;
Giving up
Is no option,
The way out is through,
And hell no,
I am not through with
The way.
Lonely is not my end,
It is but a chapter
In my epic story;
Nights alone,
Basking in a blue light
Soothing and healing internal hurts
From love gone wrong
Is where I am meant to be,
Right now,
For now;
Tenderly mending from in to out,
Alone,
to never again be truly lonely;
Here, preparing my heart
For whatever is next,
Building its muscle
To jump back in,
Wanting,
But patient for Love,
Biding my precious time,
For someone loving,
ready and worthy of me,
And what I have to offer in return;
With one life to live,
I will appreciate the embrace of the dark
Until when I am ready and willing,
To be
embraced in the dark.
Yellow-faced dandelions push up
Obstinate to the cold that still hangs in air
That promises and serves frost still,
To dew drops and windowpanes,
Spring is here,
In an in-between, limbo of seasons,
Summer and winter, each hedging for the bigger presence,
This is the nature of the season,
Spring—mediator between hot and cold,
Light and dark
On this segment of the wheel of year,
All determined by the closeness
And felt warmth of one star.
Time is
an illusion
It’s ever a moment at a time,
Each individual one
We think
We have,
Yet, we only know of it
Once it’s passed,
Worry not
For what has come and gone,
Live in the present
To make Being
last.
I’m scared
Of being open,
Of letting myself
relax
Enough to feel your touch,
Is it real?
Is this real?
Or just another illusion?
I can’t be,
won’t be,
taken for a fool,
again,
I leave my heart out,
But watch from a distance,
Guarded,
Prepared to snatch it back,
Should your ways appear
Less than
My heart,
She still hurts,
Weight of the past
Pulling,
With each beat,
Beating still,
Beating for you,
But I don’t trust anything anymore,
Familiar places and faces
Are now foreign to me,
Unfamiliar the motions,
For this dance of courtship
Is awkward,
And yet it pulls
Like a magnet,
The force making “us” natural,
Still
This heart she weeps,
Riddled With battle wounds,
This
is going to take
Some time.
She of Letters 