I can tell I am alive
I can tell I am alive when
I peer through this painted
book of living and find
a blossoming wilderness of
phosphorescent words and
bright edged colours.
Where what’s inside collides
with what is out
on the page
in a way that brings me to
warm tears and the honest
heart aching conviction
that this path of wild forces
this tender garden in which dreams
are born, nurtured, betrayed,
bent and
born again amidst the raw soil of reality,
with all its thorns, blood and
insuppressible natural beauty,
is where I am meant to be.
In a shudder of
exquisite pain I shake
off the feathers of the past
and watch then fall silently
into the cradle of
yesterday’s womb.
I stare through the mist of
blinding light that pours
incessantly
against my cheek:
a hand squeeze from
the other world
from whence I come
I open my eyes as wide as I can
until at last I can see the reflection of
the immortal face
from which I was created
and to whom I have pledged my soul
again and again.
A beloved promise,
a wild unbridled urge
beyond all human boundary
or thought of
corporeal reciprocation.
An ecstatic craving,
lawless and uncalculating,
to give and give and give
every inch of my every dimension
in this hidden, ever-present
infinity of
beautiful moments,
bittersweet creation,
electricity
and dust.
Written 2004