This train.
It is a train that fights abuse
by abusing abusers,
and I do not understand it,
my heart.
It does not understand.
They tell me I must fight,
I must fight,
I must fight.
But I will not fight.
I will know myself,
I will love myself
(imperfectly)
and I will remember
I have the strength to shine
beyond it all.
And I will shine.
Above the train,
whenever I can,
alone,
if I must.
What is this life
that drags me all the ways
through every shard of splintered glass?
I want to scream at the sun to stop!
Just for a moment,
stop.
Stop shining there.
I want only to wish on the moon
for peace,
oh for peace!
For peace,
indeed,
is a dream
to those who seek it
lifetimes long.
To rest a moment
beyond the race
is the blissful day.
To rest a moment.
To rest.
This moment.
The lonely soul
is a beauty.
She is quiet,
so quiet
as she whispers her way
through the noise,
through the dark,
through the rain.
Sing a sweet song to her.
Call to her
and she shall hand you
a soft and thoughtful dream.
Your truth is true
because you believe it.
And you must believe it
until you no longer do.
There is no quick way to birth a rose.
A rose must slowly
awaken
to beautiful
wide-open
life.
Wide-open-life.
It is a place that exists only
in the sky of us.
A neutral place,
where all are loved,
and all love
unconditionally.
Believe what you will.
Choose a side
if you will.
It is true for now.
It is true, only for now.
Until the rose opens.
Until the garden grows.
The sun is one
but never can shine
as one.
Her rays will splay,
and always touch the world
(in slices)
as they do.
How they splay
is a question for each new moment.
Who they will touch,
and in what way:
undiscovered.
The sun will shine as she will.
The sun will always shine
as she will.
There is no sound.
There is only the air.
There is only the peace that was stolen
from the garden
of every man.
There is no sound.
There is only quiet, now.
I could have stared at the sky for hours.
It was glowing.
Grey and orange; still against the crashing sea.
But it wasn’t the vision of the sunset that moved me.
It was the feel of it
within me.
So calm, I became the sky.
Peaceful.
Still.
And quietly waiting
for nothing at all.
Some days,
even the days that are kind,
(and quite lovely)
feel a deeper shade
of aching life.
And you’ll never know why,
(at least, I never do)
but you might hope
(like me)
that one day the ache will settle
and you will no longer wish
(quite desperately)
for something more.
Or less
(I can never quite tell.)
What did the poets do,
you might ask yourself
(like I do)
and you’ll try desperately to forget
the ones who didn’t make it
all the way.
I will make it all the way,
(this I know)
because I choose life
even when the skies are grey.
For alchemy was the golden lake
of dreamers past.
And dreamers present fill the aching
(world)
with streams of sunshine
and honey milk days.
Shall I fill my own cup
and drink the nectar, sweet?
Shall I ask the golden lake
(of life)
to flow this way
and bring me home?
Hold my heart, dear music.
Let me float in the clouds,
on the sweetest of tunes;
let me hold this feeling, still,
while the moon wraps around me.
Sing it again, sweet Angel.
Evermore is the breath
of this beautiful, beautiful song.
Am I a good
and proper
human.
Yes.
No.
Life.
