Springs

The fall comes after the rise
both its ending and start.
We see it happen,
time and again,
and again,
and again.
We see the heights
from which
we tumble down,
and each landing
makes us ache:
not from the pain,
but from desire.
Rising from the deeps,
we sate ourselves
on the feasts
of the longing
and let our lusts
for the sky
drift,
ashes in the wind.
And so it is only
in the fall
that we truly see
the spring.

Salvation

The sky opens,
a shaft of light
and I see
everything.
An epiphany
of life,
beauty
beyond words.
Have you ever seen
storm clouds
broken this way?
A light in the dark,
hope that there
is something
beyond the storm.
But it disguises.
It is not
salvation from the heavens,
but simply a reminder
that everything
must end
someday,
even the darkness.

Impossibilities

It is not
that I won't
but that I can't describe
the depths of my feeling.
It it impossible.
A million poets
could write
for a million years.
And they could do what I cannot.
They would put it
in words,
and describe perfectly
the how and why,
the reasons,
and each beat of my heart.
And yet still,
they would lack something,
as they would find only
a fraction
of you.

Gifts of Blood

Funny, how things build themselves.
Frailty only found in delicate touch
and strength given only where
pain should be
But still, these things exist
for a reason.
If not my pain, yours?
Are the gifts you give,
so unknowingly,
the gift of blood
taken from the generous
to feed the unworthy?