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Still Beating, Still Leaving

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I tried to explain it


but my voice just fell flat-


and now


since I've talked to God and understand


I know that even if they find cures


for cancer


there are no cures


for this.



It's funny-


how funny can it be-


When the human bubble


rolls through the heavens


and witnesses the world changing


in photographic stills


like a slow slide-show


shifting.



But photographs never shift,


just split seconds into pictures-


just tiny moments


unmoving-


like a pulse without a beat-


and we can't even understand


such angularity-


because we move on, still drifting


just God's drums beating.



I look in this house


full of faces, reminding me


I'm leaving something behind


when I close this life,


and yet I find it strange 


how the usual


became so unusual


because I still see


the supporting beams


streaming past the memories-


they just stretch across the ceiling


as if all they ever knew


was to hold up a house,


and encase a few hearts in rhythm


in straight lines, 


time keeping.



When we don't feel like talking-


or we're just prevented from speaking-


we're still saying things


we'd regret if we were living.


Our eyes just sit there 


reflecting,


a world we thought we knew


a clock we thought was ticking,


but the lines between heaven and earth


are blurred


when it is the blind who are seeing.



It's still true


that no voice ever breathed


or escaped a throat


that could talk to its own ghost


so it's still true


that our dead can't explain


to our former selves:


I am here


and still there


still circling around.

Comments (1)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Hints of immortality Mischa, is perhaps what we have left.

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