Untitled
It moves, it moves
where sight and speech may not tread,
Between the pulse, the pulse
and silence of the dead.
It threads the hollow chambers of the chest,
Unclaimed, unclaimed, yet never grants us rest.
No hand may hold it, no soft gaze contain,
Its weight bends time, bends time, yet leaves no mark, no stain.
It winds through marrow, shaping bone and mind,
And leaves the grasping soul both bound and blind.
We call it love, we call it by name,
Yet stumble, stumble on the fire, the flame.
It pulls the blood in tides the eye denies,
And carves the heart with neither balm nor lies.
It does not wait for longing, will, or plea,
It lifts the blind, the blind, and bends the bow of me.
The mind may chase its form, yet form escapes,
Its course is etched on bones and silent shapes.
It is the glance, the pause, the barely breathed,
The thought that dies, that dies unspoken, yet bequeathed.
We feel it, fail it, fail it, inherit as we fall,
Its orbit bends the maker, bends the maker most of all.
It shivers, shivers in the margin of the mind,
A whisper folded in the fold of time confined.
It shivers as it grows, as it takes and gives,
A force that shapes the world while no one lives.
And in the quiet hour before the dawn,
I hear her laughter, soft, though she is gone.
A fleeting brush of hand recalled as mine,
The smallest spark the universe aligns.
No ledger, plea, or promise may restrain,
Its tide is just, inevitable, inevitable, and plain.
We stand within it, falter, falter, yet endure,
And find ourselves exacted, exacted and made pure.
It is the law that moves the absent heart,
The hidden axis none may e’er depart.
We know its force, yet name it not in full,
And in that not-knowing, we are made whole.
It shines, it glimmers, glimmers in the dark,
A subtle flame that strikes the silent spark.
It shines to show what we have lost and gained,
Unseen, unclaimed, yet shaping all contained.
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