dandelion

I picture a shady darkness, a cooling darkness--everything too vague to veer my tired head one way or another--so I can stare into these monoliths, like enormous dandelions with such street lights breathing a sort of austere eternity--so it seems, so it compels me to reach some divine agreement, but when my mouth opens so pours a monsoon, a deluge, and so what was once a guiding light has no filter and I am left with another illusion vanished. And this light called truth leaves me scorned and scathed, but the wind is sweeping and thorough.

I wish I can say, immediately, that I am not weary. But I am a little weary.

And it is ok to be weary.

Love is this blind dance, for we cover our ears and shut our eyes and live in worlds within worlds, only to stub our toes and scrape our knees and miss place our hearts and forget where we ever left them.

Oh holy laden heaven! To be unconvinced and then unconvincing in this pursuit of love has me feeling adrift in everything--scattered dandelion to the sky in flight--I am everything, I am everything--and in cascades of waves illusions die and a sprawling senseless soul finds its infinity through solemn absences of returned affinity.

Everything is immediate, intimate, and connected, so nothing can truly fall apart, only regather itself and return to its vastness--and through longing and reach and grasp, nothing can truly tear us apart, if only to have us sprawling in these matters of heart.