A bowing flower...

Alas, this is where my thoughts reside, at the moment:

SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS

Your footsteps stroke a flower with the texture of grass,
So it seems as the petals withdraw, there is no distance
Between night and day, and the migratory pass
Of the sun, setting and rising to longing and light,
Is just a beacon upon which shadows play.
There is no time where you began, falling earthward,
From a sky who has much more than tears to shed,
All equity ends when a flower bows to being dead.

I cannot resign your fragile little perch,
Sitting upon the cusp of a universe whose embers fall
From ancient conflagrations, to the child Earth,
Where all things are re-made. If you were re-made,
Into more than a bowing flower, I’d count your footsteps
Never again foreseen, the dreaming of an hour that never again seems.


This is really a poem pertaining to grief. Even as it's a sigh from the depths, it's meant to signify the struggle between death and moving forward. I do nor proclaim death here as an equalizer, rather as a dissident.

And I'm dedicating this one to my father, and everyone who has passed. Some of you may know that All Souls' Day passed on November 2nd. I went to a mass, to honor my father, on November 2nd. It was quite... agridulce. I say that because it made me sad, yes, but the thought of eternal re-creation, matter is always preserved, permeated through my little brain, invoking a sweetness that can only be experienced in the throes of innocence.

Yes, we all die, but this does not equalize. If we are equalized, it's in our ability to see beauty. To see, that the same invisible bonds connecting us, are those which made us; the bonds of nothing and everything. The big bang. The tiny little strings vibrating in the universe, providing different dualities.

Simply, the interconnectedness of nothing.