I would like to be dancing
but this bodyís music Iím lacking;
music that was laughing and panting,
music that was color and thought;
but my nights are too still for these things
and this heart is much too sore.
My excuses are true and exist only to substantiate.
Weary, am I, and wanting.
Strange am I?
Not so strange to recede into thoughtlessness,
and seek the lovely absentness of sleep.
Nothingness is tempting me quiet,
ever so absently, tempting me tender.
To wane and ebb and disappear,
I exist yet evanesce in my dangerous peace,
I seep into the lulling nirvana of false comfort.
Alone and longing in a unselfish loneliness.
and the numbing songs of silence come calling,
calling with the voice of fresh fallen snow;
calling, calling like wind in the Queen Anneís Lace.
I too am calling, calling.
My hours are passing, seasons are changing.
My mind is hot and thick and ill,
words come sapping the imagery from an aching mind
that is so multiplied in its baffled unhappiness
that it cannot run itself out into happy emptiness.
If the body rests ever so still with warmth waxing away
I just might hear song of solidity and presence,
the music of wholeness and presence,
song that sings of friendship and withness
heard only in the silent roar of being apart.