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.
