Life as
an explosion
of moments;
beyond the counting,
like the stars
brilliant, piercing,
burning and
so much bigger
seeming, even as they point
out the experience
of your expansion
into an abyss
of mind,
missed meanings
and the recoil
of distant times
and the traces
left of places.
The gravities,
the raging passions
and impacts
that formed
the where,
and who,
that now
breaths in
the incomprehensible
wonder
of the whole,
as much
as to still be
breathing at all.
Some
so hot
some
so cold.
Some
so massive
and dark
on the soul,
how
can what they illuminated,
and fused
to harder parts,
still reach you.
And still
allow
that here
you are.
You remember
certain mind posts
alone the way.
Quiet spaces
alone with
your one candle
flickering
to keep the dark
at bay;
so many uncertainties,
so many fears,
for meaning
or value or
the possibility of progression,
to any point of understanding.
And wondering
who will I become
20 years from now.
And how
will he hate
or love
me despite
what I missed
or squandered
or took advantage of.
All of the mistakes
and the pain
of not always
owning the shame.
And here
at an arbitrary
page of age,
do you still
yearn for another volume?
Do you quake
to quit
or yearn
to burn
on another
smoking
go around?
Flame out
or flame on
or just flip a coin?
If you have to ask
you already know
the answer.
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