Faith

Years evanesce
and it took me by surprise, this
buried memory of things
I heard you say upon a day
much less diminished.

We
knew each other for neither
asking nor acknowledging, but
for an unspoken assurance
of constancy,
but once,
this one act
eclipsed the peak of all prominence
my surroundings ever deemed I achieved,
you acknowledged the words I put in writing…
MY words, strung to mimic
the meanderings of a resentful mind
and the current of crumbling ideals and dissolving truths.

Not knowing what to expect and
least expecting what was received,
I walled the self aside,
not knowing what to show, no,
afraid of too much to show, the half-hearted manner
likely made it seem
that your recognition
didn’t amount to much…
in hindsight,
it’s likely how a hollow world
of chance, imbalance, and self-absorbed disinterest,
treated you,
your aspirations,
your talents, dreams,
your own victories, or whenever
you tried to set your best self forward
– all met with that deafening silence of inconsequence.

But you
repeated yourself again that day, then,
and now,
with an unfathomable distance between us,
with roles and circuits set in stone,
when I find it exhausting to believe in myself,
I remember
that you did.
So… here I arrive again,
repeating an unfailing orbit
at failing intervals.

Deficit

Were words not overused
as they are,
perhaps
there would be more dignity
in ‘grief’,
that is to say,
the vicissitudes of turbulence
in the ravaged valley of the ‘heart’,
that serves
as contemptible metaphor
for the entirety of one’s substance
susceptible to ‘despair’,
the kind
that makes you despise
the glass half-full
and envy
the sound of ‘laughter’
made in blissful ignorance
of the barbarity
of cold ‘time’,
which is,
as Dad used to say,
just “a unit
          used to measure
          the changes
          of nature”.

 

From Book IV