Thursday, April 2, 2015

written at home.

[there's always an easy way out]

We've known this place before, seen our shoes in the sands we stir with time,
Passing over easily mistaken lines drawn and redrawn, sketched, outlined
like chalk bodies in the miniature wind danced dunes.

Not that it seems to be anything to remember anymore, say... The way
we know this day will pass,
the sun will set,
stars rising from their beds
below our heads,
and up, up, up, above.
Have we been missed ?

When they circle our other half, the hemispheres twisting, running faster.
At least that's how we pretend. We'd like to think the world was still turning,
and we weren't just running around a static track.
White knuckled,
dusted,
panting and holding it all in,
withdrawn.
The sprinter's trance.

What portraits did we pass along the way?
Did we leave them face down as we passed?
A forgotten memory,
a moment in time,
a pause - left to fade out grey?
We can walk on and pretend the faces will come back from their faded states,
that the spirits we walk over are just fading out like the stars at dawn.
 They'll be back for us.

Someday.

The faint twinkling never seemed like suffering to us, but what do we know about being universal?

Still, we can drag our laces through the gravel.
The sandy streets.
The only place we know.
 Now.

Under a dawn or maybe a sunset,
Out into a southern starlit night,
The sky is clear tonight,
The stars are bright
Across a sky we pretend to find much more beautiful than we feel at the time we see it,
Because, after all, stargazing is longing.

And we can feel that without the sky's help.