Like a piece of ground where bombs go off repeatedly,
my inner landscape is perpetually marked by these explosions of sorrow,
made all the worse by the lack of a listening ear,
a warm open heart or an outstretched hand.
I have constructed a map but it’s incomplete,by its nature;
so even now,I might stumble into an old hole or a new one,
created by reverberations underground;
the noise like distant music, a constant drumbeat.
We do not dance
I might call it the Liturgy of Loss,
a dance to the music of rhyme;
Patterns and shapes hold the feelings and express them.
The shape of these forms is a container for the grief.
In this way,I indicate that life will go on;
I hear the healing music and sing to its melodies
like a mermaid on the edge of the sea in winter
when the water is cold and green like his eyes,
and the rocks are hard like large fists.
Nature can be a symbol for such emotion
we cannot walk without a tear in each eye
and a softening of our hearts as tenderly we touch the world
and are touched in turn by each other.
Stretch out your hand to meet mine.
We can hold each other better than each can hold theirself. As in bodily love,
the meaning is not in the frenzy but the giving and being given;
receiving and being received.
The sacredness of the erotic needs no explanation to a gardener or a fisherman
but may need it for the information saturated,postmoderns
who dwell in the fascist virtual reality we call life on earth today
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