Just a moment ago,
A hint of a whisper of a flavor
On the tip of my reckless tongue,
At my fingertips,
Like the phantoms fleetingly appearing
On mornings of fog and mists –
Here but a moment. Now gone.
Something about the oftenness
With which I birth Anger,
All bitter and dark like death.
How infrequently we all carry Joy,
Nurturing it with all the Hope we possess,
And somehow yet Joy while rarer
As Light always conquers Darkness and
Our fears, the fertile soil of the Anger we bear.
All of this
On the heels of a thought –
More like a memory or
Precognition or only a dream
About the intimacy of parallels,
Is a million miles where we are blanketed
Apart, never even face to face now
Our lives completely different
But still, somehow, parallel.
And when my heart sings to me
Memories of you, and you, of all the
Loves, the sorrows, disappointments,
When my heart sings to me
Memories in my world
Parallel to yours, and yours,
A question then
Because after all,
Vanity has its place –
Does your heart, and yours,
Sing of memories of me?
Finally, another random particle of thought:
If I could but create art,
I would be freer –
If I were but freer,
I could create art –
But freedom’s nature is insecure
And my nature seeks security.