Purpose fled to destiny;
now, what of the rest of me?
Hanging in this balance between
everything I’ve been and all I shall be,
nothingness pricks my heart.
This art I’ve called survival…
worn for one cause only.
A perfected craft sits lonely,
awaiting invitation to fill shoes
which no longer fit. My quick –
exposed beneath time’s blade,
anxiously dripping remnants of yesterday
that will never cling again to the surface.
“I am” is fleeting, constantly shrinking
into past tense qualifiers… no longer
quantifiers of this substance of being.
“I was” is all I’m seeing.
“Without” is what I’m breathing.
The needing – slayed through open doors
bidding the exit of identity; for there’s
no room to follow. I swallow feelings
with this gulp of intellect.
Mind over heart’s matter – so says the
professional chatter. I’m too
keen for my own good.
Should gates come crashing down,
temperate lose its crown, and
grief command its grounds – then,
sanctity be found. Meanwhile,
I am loosed in the most composed way,
quietly measuring existence with the
absence of my everything.