the unbearable compassion of being connected

how we go to seed and become buried in the earth

I could not read it, even if it bought sky with

a happy ending, it wasn't someone else's journey

I needed at the time, it was mine and every ache

I awakened and chanced to feel was genuine

every demon I greeted like a politician

vying for agreements and votes

eviction notices pending and

the style of my life

just needing the honesty

I deserve.

 

journey.

sometimes you have to occur as protagonist.

though I love Lit 201, even poems

became a moot substance

I could not dream them

or mount the loftiness of ideas

that produced visions I might dream or write.

 

but the news is good

it was compassion that took me into her arms

and agreed that something had to change.

as I felt the renewal of connection

the dawn of pain filled me with grief

no question, I have died

I didn't kill heaven

nor did I ascend

it's coming down to greet me

and I know my shoes

as well as mud between my toes.

 

how the clay is hardened

and tears break

as we soften into a new form

that first breath remembered

as reprise

 

Reviews

[J.P. Bristow]

wonderful.