Nothingness walks like an injured fly
on a window sill.

Time stretches when we are dying.
That slow fade is like giving up on him
despite the ingrained burning of his eyes,
looking skyward.

In space above, the nothing is incomprehensible;
it is everywhere, pulling away from you.

Yet absent your alien awareness
there is no focus in darkness.

The super-massive nothing is the primitive emotion
of the hobbling fly on the window sill;
it is powerfully closing in upon itself.

Even this tiny death is a black hole
collapsing:
in the grasping emptiness light is sucked
through space-time
and everything is spiralling inward.

Time stretches when we are dying.

Maybe death is like this morning's abrupt
awakening to the crow's scraping voice,
where our space curves like a tilted tree trunk
whose offshoot nevertheless rises vertically
to the warmth of a source light:
the dying sun.

Yet even this is beautiful,
yet difficult to admit
in my childish stumbling.

Existence is enough.
Yet this message is not learned through telling,
but only through the practice of living
through the center.

Receptive to heart-peace
we find focus in the serenity of an unfulfilled mind:
not-yearning for things which may never be.

This is the unlittering of the soul.

In our journey all is spiral; I strive for the center.
In the heart's curve I can hear her voice
disappearing and reappearing

and
I wonder
why so many songs are beautiful.

In the absence of light
we must be inured to darkness.

Where time stretches when we are dying,
the separation of consciousness ends
and falls together.

I thought her lips
pressed to mine
was still and pure
and the source
of the sun.

But it was false-reaching
in those soft moments.

I must find everything
within myself
within the movement
of my supple humanity

where the beauty of our hands
exploring each other
is only acheived
in the moment
when we've both let go.

08/23/2004

Author's Note: Please check out my new book! ;)>

Posted on 08/23/2004
Copyright © 2024 Tom Goss