Poetic Last Days

As I used to post poetry of some form in the end of the month, I thought it was a good time to resurrect the occurrence:


We all know the sensation,

The tug, below the heart.

The sound, whispered in our ear.

The gaze we settle into.

Is it a call, we wonder?

Where to?

From whom?

Yet, no answer sought.

No, no name given.

No face to describe.

No reply must be voiced,

The message is in the life.

Eyes covered, mouth closed,

Yet, senses alive and burning,

We go!

Step out into the wonder.

Something calls us,

Come and hunt!

Come and see!

Come to me.

It burns in our veins,

Run!

Faster, perhaps you will,

Catch up.

Fly!

If only this matter could defy,

The laws of earth.

Oh, and how we sigh!

Such beauty, such joy.

No wind has felt this free,

No rain has felt this fiery,

No sea has felt this surge,

No mountain has known this height.

Gain, gain ground!

Move, act, drive!

Cannot be still one moment,

The heart beats too fast.

Nearly spent, and yet,

No end in sight.

No exhaustion,

No sleep.

Just go, and seek.

Find, and know.

Ah, the limits of language,

Like the limits of matter,

Giving the necessary form,

Yet, so unable to go!

The ache to explode and fuse into,

The yearning to truly share, to give,

To know by the most interior way,

To be the other.

We cannot escape the skin.

“Love” will ever be defined,

As the world will let it be.

As we attempt to live it.

As we weakly strive to share,

As we meekly seek to give,

As we vainly die to self,

As we mock the words we say,

As we belie our words in actions,

As we serve the self instead,

As we turn it all inward,

As we cover the ears and eyes,

Yet wag the tongue ongoing.

We reach the same edge,

The same view greets the senses,

The cliff,

The precipice.

The call we see,

Comes over the sea,

The sea of self,

The mind and heart.

Do we unbridle?

Do we release?

Are we so free, so real, so alive,

That we are at peace?

So able and so sure,

As to fall?

We cannot have both.

Die now, and live,

Or live, and die.

Jump, and give,

Or stay, and wither.

Some say irony,

Others paradox,

Yet, it is so logical.

A call from inside should not,

Be answered inside.

Whom do we speak to there?

No, the call must be spoken,

Out,

And known,

And shown,

And given to another,

So that the reply,

Is an answer,

So that the response,

Gives relief.

Limits of words,

Flesh and bone,

Are not shared,

By heart and soul.