In Due Coarse

There is a valley between us
that grows as we grow apart.
Through the valley a river flow –
once rapid, now slowed,
calming to an unnerving state.
Unaware of the movement below,
a lake of fire thru Earth flow.

Footsteps,
seldom measured
strain the ground,
lacerating the Earth’s
clay-faced expression.

Blushing red,
swell mountains
as we stand on their peak –
a side taken each.

Catharsism;
a card too many
brings the whole house down.

As above, so below,
the hot blood of Mother Earth
spills over into the cup.

The vessel is not meant to be full.
Toes touching the brim,
scalding – longing burns the heart.

This blood is not to be drunk.
Its course runs through no mortal vessel
before consuming it, transcending, transforming.

***

A form of the formless flow
in flux; always returning
or leaving –
never one,
an eclipse of the yin
holds a hand
over the gaping mouth
that foolishly tries
to tilt the cup.

To have not drunk,
and have not been drunk,
yet to be drunk –
that is the true state of the drunkard.

With what little value we hold
the grey area of our caged memories –
like ash adorning the luminous streams,
a sentiment lost along with the execution
of attachment.

Drink
and this vessel
will be consigned
to flames.

***

Emotions,
like water,
transcend state.

As air:
cooled,
condenses,
running
down the vessel,
or warmed,
perspires,
rising
to the light.

What shape then do emotions take
in the realm of the One Energy?

The soft, cotton feel of contentment –
a pillow of feathers, resting.
The coarse grit of aggression,
pent up –  a firm grip against the sword.

Do these states take any known shape
outside the dimensions of time and space?

For how long
does one long for
when time no longer
measures worth?

How soon
is too soon
when an end
is synonymous
with both beginning
and what is?

***

She said, “words”
and we lost touch
with meaning.

Remember, I do,
when we held hands
with delirium –
fingers, enter, mingle,
arcs arch,
nape, neck,
twist, spine.

I hide
behind veils
of distance –
dislocated by time,
misplaced by fate.

She says “words”
fall off my face
wet, warm,
flowing words,
into syllables dissolve –
mono – I, alone.

Remember, I hope,
when our feet danced
to the same conundrum –
mine swam into the sea,
yours forever in a waking trance.

***

Hold.

What does it mean to hold,
to hold on to?

Does it imply possession?
No.

To hold
is to clasp
with palms
grateful
and not teeth
grating.

To hold on to
as if to nurture
as the pot
serves the plant –
neither owns the other
nor are they ungrateful.

Yet plants grow
while their vessels strain –
the function outweighs the form,
and I – dislocated by time,
misplaced by fate –
find resolve
in dissolution.

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