Mine
–
This short space,
long in endurance,
has an abundance of fragments,
pieces to pull-apart and reassemble.
Where once there was:
A singular motion.
Belief.
Awareness and identity.
(Perhaps awareness was illusion.
Identity, a guest.
Motion, stillness in disguise.)
Come and stay for a while.
Here in this is your refuge,
Be this innocence, this joy,
Safe—
(From an otherwise negligent existence.)
–
Oh, but it was a life!
It had a road to follow.
A perfect wisdom—
–
(Little beating heart,
You always were so trusting.)
It shattered.
The foundation a quicksand—
–
Damn it all to hell!
With a lullaby why don’t you…
“A pocketful of posies”
For the death of it all:
Scattered broken-delights,
escaped
into a world-unfortunate.
For experiencing less than perfect,
it is blessed all the same.
–
Honey,
capture the taste, sweet like a blossom, on your tongue,
before everything dissipates,
and you become a shadow to it all—
Remember:
Life’s meaning
IS
l o v e
For
what makes sense,
and doesn’t.
Comes or goes.
Touches tender the spot,
or
stings irreparably.
On, and on, and on…
We live and die
pleading for its capture,
to render our hearts helpless.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte
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