Sheathed
Sometimes I forget to breathe.
What will not reach my voice
Shimmers with fury in my eyes.
I open the dusty cupboards
Holding thoughts upon their shelves.
Inward. Incessantly inward.
The fulcrum of confession
Keeps the ingredients in place.
I dare not move them.
It is but illusion.
I start again.
The roots of this emotion
Dig deeper and deeper,
Pooling in chasms of liquid;
Just because I want it.
Just because I let it.
It reaches the very core of me.
I confront the frustration
Of what I cannot speak
As reason imprisons my words.
Not yet…
It takes me by the trembling hand
Teaching me to understand.
It validates the prior view
Before I could conceive of you.
Depth synchronized.
Veiled and shaded,
Over anticipated,
It snapped in loaded tension.
The resplendent flight
Of this will, this light,
Built a bridge across the fracture.
You crawl upon the chambered web,
Closer– quieter– closer.
What awaits the center?
The silvery fibers;
Distortions of age;
A poet’s cognitions
On an intimate page?
Pointing at my picket fence
While your fortress casts its shadow
Across the untouched valleys.
Inward, deeper still,
I forge my way across the hill.
In constant quest;
My truths– undressed,
Returning silence to its sheathe.
And sometimes I forget to breathe.
(2014)
