Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Because I'm a poet before all else. . .
We are flickers of light at the edge of vision,
A pause for breath between notes, easily missed,
Scribbled down in discordant key, with pagenotes
reminding the author to correct us later.
If the sound makes you pause, cry, reconsider --
if it makes you question the reasons behind your assumptions --
Do we remember that we are all dust?
Can we see, for a moment, the lifeblood
of long dead stars
Internal novas burning and fueling,
Spilling out of hands and feet and lips and eyes,
Tracing lines of DNA and heritage
from me to you to me to you to. . .
The space between the heartbeat we share.
If the sound makes you cry -- if it makes you question --
A truth is -- nothing passes from existence
A truth is -- we all dissolve into nothing
We cycle, cycle, remembered, forgotten
Smoldering, blazing, saved only by our tethers Here
To this blood that cannot forget
To this blood that is our witness:
We were and now are gone.
If the sound makes you reconsider -- if it makes you question --
At an end of it all, we find a beginning.
We follow lines of DNA and heritage backward,
back into bits of me in you and you in me
and transcendence and ressurection and
connection and comprehension.
There's no need for correction
-- the discordant is correct.
The pause is the point.