We are not born.
We do not die.
The moon, which carves its million mile course through the sky
Has seen us all coming and going.
One by one,
Into and out of form and function.
An advancement to no discernible end.
Perhaps an infinite pattern of coming and going
Where only the space between,
Tells of the primal color of what we really are.
Walking in the withered fields,
Newly taken by November frost,
It is easy to feel that time passes for all of us,
The same as it does for the frost when the sun rises to kiss it with it’s burning lips.
We pass, as all things do, like frost on the grass.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
And yet we can never truly die.
We can only come and go,
From the timeless space between the lifetimes that we live.
Which is what we really are.
We are turned to ash.
We are rich with the putrefaction of what we once were.
And the shadow rains down upon us
We suffer all but death
In the perpetual fire of our own illusions
We suffer all but death
In the hell of our own fears
The ash is washed away
To reveal our original purity
To every black, there must be a white.
A heaven to every hell.
Behind the mask of our temporary identities, there is an eternal soul.
When we remove the mask…
We find it
From what we thought we were
Into what we really are
We can see now
That the moon’s light
Is not sun light,
It is just a reflection.
We are just a reflection of what we really are.
When we decide to turn from moonlight to sunlight
We are transmuted
And when we do…
We become the embodiment of our very soul
The sunlight is all that we are
A perfect fusion of spirit and matter
We are now the phoenix
Looking down at the ashes that once consumed us
For we are now…
Over the choir of the hour,
I hear the minute whisper,
that life is a series of seconds,
strung together one by one.
A happy life is nothing more than a succession of happy seconds.
But I watch this woman before me,
as I hold her in my arms,
twisting with fear and writhing in the agonized resistance to death
as she advances towards it with every breath she takes.
And I see that her existence, like so many was a desperate quest for a happy life.
Like so many, she spent her days so intent on reaching that happy life,
that she missed the happy moments as they slid beneath her feet…unnoticed.
Death, like birth shall have no dominion over the ever lasting soul.
When blood and bone and sinew are gone,
we shall all have stars at hand and foot,
though we resist it all the same.
The coming and going from this life, is not often a thing of ease.
And the bitter landscape of grief tells us that those who die,
are lost to us.
The living flesh is not immortal.
But death is not the monstrous tyrant that reminds us so.
Rather, it is the inevitable lesson which teaches us to look beyond the flesh for what it is that lives and dies.
Today, from the granting platform of my arms, she leaves this life.
When the line on the ECG runs flat,
her daughter, like a woman giving birth, is taken up by interwoven tears and laughter
in the throes of the release.
It is a palpable transition that liberates every one of us within the room.
It is a ceremony of souls.
I sit atop the white linens, both they and I, stained deeply by her blood.
What is left of her is celebrated in a residual silence as people file in to say goodbye.
I remain for a time, in the cold of her mortal garden.
Her skin as cold and pale as clay.
Holding her body, now renounced,
with immortality at my side.
Death does not stop time, even when it feels like it should.
The seconds are still strung together one by one.
The question is…Are you watching?
Hovering so directly exposed, we can feel the earths rotation.
He is damp and desiring as if newly being weaned from my
breast. His skin in a pervasive slide over mine, learning the
notes to this melody of flesh. Hunting the reeking nectar
lying beneath the surface of our ability to control.
Latex becomes the festering of love’s honey, it fills the
entirety of this ocean of blankets, preventing this action’s entire purpose.
His Body arching into me, desiring to conceive a feeling rather than a thing.
I want to take you deep into any part of me you wanted to coat or fill.
You defy my ability to keep things stagnant and dark,
You are my own precious piece of this world
Writhing to the beat of one pulse
Can you do anything but be powerless?
The moment sweeps over us like a passing tide, and you lay on me.
Are we even 2 people anymore?
I don’t think so.