Sunday, January 18, 2015



I am waiting for that moment,

when life sets again, after melting,

like  jelly, liquefied, unstable,

sloshing at the edges with every


movement of the heart, rippling

with every shudder of mind,

spilling in slow slide with each

tipping of Soul, as it moves


against the sides of Self, as it

is contained within the bowl

of being, shimmering, clear

and resonating with potential,


which requires only that slow

congealing from outside, into

the expectant centre as all

firms into something which


is sure, steady, moving only

barely with the touch of

hesitant fingers of feeling;

no longer without form, and


unreliable; no longer unable

to hold a certain shape, no

matter how often it is rudely

knocked - at last confirmed.



Days mark time for me in

bitter expectation, knocking

on the door of waiting, which

desperation has surely locked,

as lingering minutes stand,

in line, ready to be called,

but hearing only silence,

that hanging in a universe


of possibility, breathing

songs choked of potential,

lying in deceitful wait as

glittered, bitter hoping,


quiescent in remission of

what might be, and all that

I had wished; dormant is

my heart, held in latent


intermission as futures

hide abeyant, now that you

are gone and love huddles

in the recess of my being -


time is now postponed

and the angels counsel

patience and acceptance,

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