I woke to realize I'd died
and yet, I'm still walking
my mouth decayed, tried
and still, talking
a sort of incoherent wandering,
words of babble-speak
quietly I sat, dead, yet somehow, lingering
it was the whole of me that sprung leak
Into the seams of the floor . . .
tears and curses and love
doubt:
a holy diving dove
a flawlessly cut stone
fit to crush the man and bone
set as a divine trap to slow and swallow busy twitch
a disease-eater, a golden stitch
“so be it,” intones the company of ghosts I still love
maybe awake in the clouds or asleep in dust
a faith inflexible yet has name
is one of moth and rust,
or it’s only a thin wish,
without promise or frame
(maybe. . . he waywardly mumbles, beneath the sound wholly fools make)
there is no god of those who speak monotone
only thought crafted interpretation
called king of all and throne
alive to live more, self-gratification
we, who need rescue, rarely identify until sinking
it’s all a maybe, an echoing which leads home
this doubt, cold and old,
serves as guide through valley shadows,
in spite of cowering pose
. . . and tears like rain flowers belief all the more
(image credit: "long turn," Tim Hunter; licensed CC 2.0)