Where My Soul Belongs

While a part of my soul longs, To be carried away, Far far, From myself, To another world, To a mountain top, To a lonely place, To where the air is thin and light, To where sensations stop, To where feelings end, To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence, Another part, Just wants to be where my soul belongs, Close, To myself, Entirely available and present, Near to who I am, Available, In the moment, Here and not there, Truthful, To the voice, Who cries, Do you see me? — The wings that lift me into the sky, Soaring in the icy drafts, Glide with grace, Leaving no trace, Of the invisible pilot, Who steers, By the reigns, Of the eye of the mind, Alone, Like a drone, Operated in some far off place, By a craftsman conjurer, Whose fingers mime, What the imagination can not speak of. Like a dream, Where the magic fluid of time stops, Just long enough, To not disrupt, The trust of continuity, The wings contract, Revealing an intention, To impact. In a slow, Steady gyration, I am carried, First up and around, In a giant bow, Like the swinging arch, Of destiny’s hand in the sky. The torsion and kinetics, Leave no ambiguity, The emotions, Though calm, No doubt. What awaits at top, Hanging upside down, In the air, Strapped, trapped, In a chair, Is unspeakably worse than the crime, Devised by the mind, Of he, Whose role is to parole, The empty fallacies, The narration of self, Tells itself. What awaits, When the screaming starts, In the eyes of those you love, Is the absurdity of your own silence, Is the utter feeling of having already given up, Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near, Somehow not bothering even, To just say, hang in there my little friend, I am with you, I am near, Instead just sitting there, Waiting for it be be over, While he, Who you love most of all, Sits alone in tears. That my friend, Is horror… The rest is just, A blissful crash. —— Hiding is the remedy, Fighting the disease, Forgetting is the poison, That writers conceive. —- I will go then, To that place, Where solitary men, Seek refuge, From the fires of the soul, Where broken drums, Seek silence, Where flowers, Never grow, To walk among, Empty woods, To count alone, Scars and wounds, To touch and wander, To love and let go, To make amends, With friends and foe, To whisper, Just one last time, The words, Those ineffable, Incredibly quiet, Intensely eternal words, Whose power Only she could know. Then, As if by doing so, The sun could set, On the shoulders of all that I have seen, I would say, My friend, I am not broken yet, These words, Do not forget. Go then, Reflect, On the art of living, For the sake, Of dying, Only, Not just yet. —- The marksman who chooses his arrow, Is not like the blind falling sparrow, In his sight, Whether day or night, The beginning of time is now, Bend it then man, Forfeit the other plan, Make from the shaft and plant it. — This then was not a poem, Nor, was it ever, Meant to become one, Which is not to say, Nor deny, The obvious desire, Immanently displayed, In the mood portrayed, To write something poetic, A gem even, A crown of jewels, For the world of fools, Those miserly souls, Called readers. Being something entirely different, A monstrosity of sorts, Manifestly opaque, Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake, More than blurry, Always in a hurry, To cover over what was never even there to begin with, One might ask, What was it? To which I respond, Hat in hand, Letter of resignation, Hidden in my sleeve, Be patient reader, Do not despair, This little speech, Is meant for the air, To be inhaled only, By those addicted, To disreputable habits, Those little rabbits, Who rise from the orifice, Of one we all know, Yet never did notice. This then was how it ended, Never to be amended, Retouched, Or recommended, Not redacted, Enacted, Nor retracted, Just left alone, To make peace, With the words, Who always do, And say, What they please. In the beginning was the deed… Silence.