When the dust settles

When the dust settles

We are born seeing the world as a solid place
with different surfaces: earth, air, water, fire and so forth.
All solid in their own way.

We go about our lives interacting with each surface
creating things using a mixture of these solids which includes ourselves.

Sometimes when there is a silence there comes a clarity
and the dust motes begin their slow dance of finality.

If you sit long enough with the air around you becoming still
you’ll come to see things in their natural states.

You’ll receive a heightened appreciation of your surroundings
and with your senses reborn you can watch as the dust settles
to reveal a blank canvas where everything permanent, solid,
has an ambient essence of life with a different atmosphere.

You’ll see.

Connections

Connections complete us
and compete with us.

As one connection is made
so another fades.

This is the reality of life
the order of things.

A heartbeat is merely an echo
of silence
and within this silence
connections are made and lost.

A breath is nothing but
an exhumation of time
and within this time
we are being destroyed.

A touch is sufficient enough
for a soul to reach its purpose
and within this purpose
is love.

A living thought is dependent
upon its merit
for we are beings with the potential
to create malignant or benevolent connections.

This is the reality of life
the order of things.

As one connection is made
so another fades.

Connections complete us
and compete with us.

What she gave me

It was such a long time ago when she gave me a gift; I didn’t know what it meant, perhaps I still don’t. Time is a distant memory and it was a very long time ago, but so is now and we have so little of it. Looking back I see I can fold time and see her, but not see her.

This memory thing we have, this prophetic voice inside us tells us things we remember and we use these things to prophesize our lives. All because of time and our running out of it. We believe in something ghostly. We trust in something distant from our understanding and so we live not for ourselves but for our memories of time yet within us knowledge exists and so we listen to the teachers, but are they right or wrong?

~

A little side note here.

I am currently working on my new collection of poetry, similar in size to Broken Roses and kind of carrying on from that book but not so dark and deathly. This was the last poem I was going to include and thought it would work as a prose poem but seeing it like this I don’t think it does as it reads more as an essay type thing so here it is for you all to peruse.

Thank you again to those who have bought my books, you’re all very my appreciated.