If i could sit at the seat of my soul
And look eye to eye with my heart
What words, what ideas, what feeling
Would pass i wonder
I could spend my life wondering
I could pass my days in wonder
Wandering from fire to fire
Knowing many homes and none
No words satisfy this heart's hunger
No water quenches its thirst
No names define its language
Where, where are my words
I could not speak them before the seat of my soul
I am forgetting how to speak in the tongue of tears
That river which leads so many hearts to the sea
A sprig or mint by the wayward brook; A nibble of birch in the wood; A summer day and love and a book, And I wouldn't be king if I could. John Vance Cheney
~
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
confessions p. 34
I have been weeping
I am haunted, broken
I am losing
what is not mine for the keeping
I am touching a moment
that will never be again
I am hoarding these photographs
but they are not mine to keep
A broken tooth, a bloodied arm, potential lost
Another's wife, parents ignored through the divorce
Two sullied lungs, a father's shame
A headline reading one million slain
And so many nights spent weeping over the beauty of it all
There is as much light in this world as darkness
And more perhaps, I think
And none of it
Neither darkness nor light
Is mine for the keeping
This moment
This home
This music
This body, in all its grace
These lips, and this speech
This light in our eyes when we speak
None of it is ours to keep
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