Reflections on Irrelevance
Can he tell that I’ve stared into the void, the dark tunnel of the iron before?
Different angles, different ages, but the same questions all the time.
Is this a precursor to the end, the beginning of all there is?
The all-consuming darkness before me doesn’t seem so inviting this time.
I wonder what he sees when he closes his eyes in the moment.
I’ll never find out.
Maybe I’ve always known, I’ve looked in mirrors before.
Instead, he learns.
A life isn't always a candle. A life isn't always a wildfire.
He learns that I am somewhere in between.
Death is not a whisper. Death is not a tempest.
I learn that he is somewhere in between.
Like wine on carpet, or a water-stained book,
We are always there.
I’d jolt from sleep or toss and turn
Struggling, tense, wondering still.
If it really came down to it, could I do it?
Could I kill or would I be killed?
Does it really matter, in the end?
Maybe that’s the point, either way we end up the same.
Maybe we learned the truth, we’re all awaited. Six feet deep.
Sometimes I dreamt we might be brothers, we stood there for ages.
Bonded by the steel between our hands.
Neither wanting to be without it, unsure of what we would do with it.
More real, and there for us, than God and maybe in that moment it was.
As we fall on knees, together in prayer, fervent worship of death.
We can’t help thinking it might be an Alpha and it sure as hell was the Omega.
Its answers are resolute.
Maybe a part of us did kill the other that day.
On Cold Dreaming Desert and Warm Waking Waters
Forlorn desert does not ask why it is
devoid of soft droplets, kisses from heaven.
Gifting life, so wanted. Instead it goes
for time uncounted enduring in heat.
Blinded, or growing numb from the cold nights.
Never truly finding comfort or peace
in its own domain. So it must abide.
Maddened by imagined limitations.
Sand dunes climb, always reaching, yearning so.
Sunkist hands that will never grasp the sky.
Mere fact, but perchance an untold promise
and so the desert does not ask why? How?
It must go without rain, it does not ask.
It chooses to create life, birth beauty.
Chuparosa, Mariposa Lily,
Apache Plume, and Desert Marigold.
It knows of the rain, though it knows it not,
and maybe that is where all things reside.
Cycles of selfishness and selflessness
The desert will be around for the rain,
like a river will carve through a canyon.
At the mercy of the rain, but not tied.
Grateful when it decides to come around.
Alas, such is the nature of nature.
Drown me in your waters, flood me so that I am never without you again.
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