In reckless adolescence,
its mayhem
and destructive wake,
I was free.
I ask you:
What is the price of a life
well-lived?
Adulthood: must it mean confinement?
Author: omeyz
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you are the hymn
that draws the grief from my ribs—
you are the baptism
the pious call “sin.”
you pull me under,
I drown in your depth—
I emerge pristine,
reborn,
cleansed.
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absolute freedom,
it used to be the goal—
until I learned,
having nothing to be tethered to
is its own kind of hell,
its own kind of jail.
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and when you hold my hand,
my heart speeds up,
but time slows down.
your head tilts, laid on my chest,
& the turning of the earth: it hiccups,
if only for a moment.
and your laugh—
oh, your laugh,
I can only die happy
if that sound
were my last.
this love: it is not quiet.
it burns in my gut,
it needs to be sung—
to shout, to scream, to holler,
“Look, world— it is her. She
is the one—
the one
who is a full Moon
on the darkest night—
or, no— she is the Sun,
and I the pallid Moon,
and if I shine,
it is but her
borrowed light.”
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And I think poetry is our remedy,
for bottomless is the modern appetite
which wants everything, all at once.
a poem demands:
chew,
taste,
swallow,
savor— slowly.
there it is:
that fullness, so elusive.
a novel
in each word;
you jump in,
expecting a puddle,
but fall in,
swimming in hidden depths.
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Break your life into verse.
To run on this path,
or to stop; savor,
inhale—
step,
stop—
gravel crunch, silence,
eyes closed, heart open,
holding the Sun’s hands.
step again, stop.
there is a hidden movement.
a leap in every pause.
such speed in stillness.
such stagnancy in those who cannot stop moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving—
lips move,
but frozen on the same word.
find the symphony.
make a hymn of the cacophony.
rescue each layer from its doom:
to be swallowed by the whole.
do not let life be noise:
let it be music,
and please:
stop, and listen.
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Can you hear me here? Is there anyone there? Am I mute or are the ears of the world deaf?
Have you awoken yet to the nature of nature? Have you realized what it means to be impoverished? Have you seen the desolate nature of riches? Have you seen the wealth of the poor?
Have you seen the gold stored in the hearts of the wise? Have you seen the coal hoarded by tycoons?
Have you heard the message only audible in silence? Have you heard the music that the ears cannot sense? Have you listened to the oracle who whispers to your heart?
There is a sweetness unknown to the tongue. There is a warmth that only hugs the openness of your heart.
Have you met the cancer of aliveness, the panacea of your passing? Have you relinquished the illusion? Have you blinked, blinked, blinked awake? Does the light burn? Have you closed your eyes again, tried to forget the light?
Won’t you let your eyes adjust? Won’t you forget the darkness from which you were born? Won’t you stop groping the walls of this labyrinth with your hands, hoping to find the way? Won’t you instead open your eyes and see the gilded thread?
Have you seen the wisdom in the water? Have you let the ice of your being melt into the river? Have you let the river take you, have you become the river that does the taking? Have you surrendered the fear of surrender, have you experienced the ecstasy of free-fall, that highest terror and most secret desire of every heart?
Have you placed your feet in the water, let the moon pull the ocean to and fro in greeting? Have you seen the message inherent in every particle? Have you let die the illusion of deadness, have you surrendered the hubris? Have you seen that you are not the center of aliveness, but an extension of it, that aliveness begins with the inanimate that is not and never was inanimate?
Have you come to know that you are only as alive as you see the universe? How alive is it? How alive are you?
Do you not understand the statement in these questions? Do you know the question inherent in every statement, the ignorance of confidence? State nothing. Question everything. It is impossible to wonder without growing. The moment you are confident of your world is the moment its walls are built, you caged in.
Burst those walls down with questions. How destructive it is to be curious— what freedom.
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can you feel the flame dying?
the celestial hearth we orbit dims.
premonitions of heat death:
you inch farther
and farther
away.
our gravity: not enough.
this dance, it comes to an end—
you are drawn in by another,
by a pull
far greater.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star
is warm enough for me alone—
but my oceans
already turn to ice.
my glacial heart
slows its beating.
heat death, heat death, heat death:
again, the premonition.
prescient vision:
it sees not the future, but the now
too clearly.
my love is its own cipher:
the very thing which bitters our parting,
makes shouts of whispers,
cymbals of subtlety.
and what is heartbreak but this:
for the heart
to still hold someone near
who is not near
to be held?
the heart understands not
the language of miles—
to it, you are still close.
it reaches out, sure of your embrace—
it recoils at the thin air.
my love:
where are you?
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can you feel the flame dying? this star of ours, the celestial hearth we orbit, she dims.
premonitions of heat death — you inch farther and farther away. our gravity is not enough. this dance comes to an end— you are drawn in by another, a gravity far greater than mine.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star is warm enough for me alone, but my oceans already turn to ice. my glacial heart slows its beating— heat death, heat death, heat death— again, the premonition.
prescient vision, it sees not the future, but the now too clearly. my love is its own cipher: the very thing which bitters our parting makes shouts of whispers, cymbals of subtlety. they broke my heart long before you spoke the words.
and what is heartbreak but this: to hold someone near to your heart still who has long departed? the heart speaks not in terms of physical distance— to it, you are still close. it reaches out, expecting your embrace— it recoils at the thin air. it reaches again, cannot fathom your absence.
where are you, my love?
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anything not fed eats itself:
body, mind, heart.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 