Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

March 12, 2013

She Sang

For Brian and Sabina.

She sang, Oh, Lord
come down and let me feel
your healing. I know her
song: above all else
it was poetry. Nothing
solely of the intellect
possesses me. This I know:
the irrelevance of the imperfect
intertexts which describe my life
is more profound than any possible
combination of their contexts.
At what I honestly now believe
to be the finest, most evolved
level of mind—which some name
soul, or heart, or god—
I found relevant and indelible
truth, such as withstands
any context: and it is the truth
of cellularly felt story,
story beyond words — the urge
of storytelling itself, of love
for progeny. We can manifest
in ways the human mind alone
is specialised to do, or betray
as ever has been done. Trauma
broke all of my assumptions,
and left truth standing
as the space remains after
a vase is shattered.
I can perceive it,
I have the sense. My first lessons
were of the ways I would not flee.
Now, I am realising where
I don't want to go; where
I want to stay.


Posted by delire at March 12, 2013 07:52 AM