For A Friend Returned
I am sitting here stuck
wanting to finish this letter,
wanting to continue,
waiting to continue
a conversation of fragments.
Fragments in my mind
like schrap metal.
It is hard to remove
the broken story
lingering there—
a splotch of paint here,
another there
red, yellow, blue,
primary colors
and mixes and hues,
they are spread out
on my pallet,
but my tongue
recedes from the words
and my fingers
kiss the keys
like a piano’s song
to write this.
But, they do not say the truth.
Truth is a sacred commodity
these days and that brings tears
and, even my tear these days,
pale at being seen.
There is no reverence for them
in this modern world.
They are disguised,
filtered through assorted
cosmetologies and pills—
left undefined, unacknowledged
is how we do it these days.
They turn to splinters in my heart
that longs to say
what it needs to
and most of all,
who are you?
Can you tell me
who are you
and what is
your shadow.
For if we are to talk
of shadows out there,
if we are to look upon
that overturned ocean,
surely we are not separate,
surely it is just a prelude
to some deeper
intrinsic truth
that sits with the need
in all of us and waits there
almost like Gollum
holding onto the ring
tightly
not wanting someone
to take its last bit of treasure.
Do you have the time
to mine the treasure here?
If not, don’t start.
If not, don’t ask for trust.
If not, do not deny your asking.
If not, leave me to my frailties
for I can not gather the strength
to risk the pain, once more.
Please sign your pen, in truth.
Place your mark there
where I can see it clear.
Do not hitch me to a star
with a lasso that will break
and leave me to fall.
For, if my steps are small,
they are indeed, my steps,
and, if my heart lacks,
at least it bares consistency
and wishes to put the fragments
to a halt, so they not mix
with my blood, in some
coagulating fashion, but
travel freely in the blend
where they melt with
the warmth of it
and loose their
coolness
like chocolate
melting in the pan
into a usable state
that can be enjoyed
and swallowed
for a party.
Can you melt these
fragments for me
one by one or
will you run
at the sight of them?
If not, don’t ask
for truth, for trust.
If not, what
did you cross
my doorway for,
for my cross
is one that
wishes for something divine
to cross over
into our world
and not like Constantine
to be brought into war
forever more
into the fragments of war
of thought, of boundaries
of which there are none.
And, I am standing there
as I was at sixteen
in front of a book
with a golden Buddha
looking at a description
of the eight fold path
and asking,
how do you do this
and live a normal life?
In Hawaiian secret songs
to heal you, I find the place
within where you exist
where I created you—
this seed fragment of reality.
I am not that strong
are you?
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