home
Wednesday 27 November 2013
"Everything In Between"
Looked truth in the eye.
Hoped to catch it in its lie
But my aim shrouded my focus.
Through this aversion, I have noticed
That some ends only exist
To take us back to the origin.
Those who finish and persist
Will eventually be born again.
The path in between
Be it far from pristine
Seldom completely clean in nature
is still meant to be savored.
From the late text
To the latex,
to the lack thereof
To the mutual evidence of love
Rest moments likely reserved
for those who will preserve
And promote what they hold dear.
Far before the fear
Are the days measured in breaths.
More exhales per hour
For those riddled with regret.
Patience coincides with power
Needed to cultivate our youth.
Seedless membranes yield strange fruit;
But the lush will land with grace
Lest they prefer landing on their face.
Origin perceived serpentine
Up until light peers through the cracks.
Acts formed around one's younger years
constantly in the mouths of mothers
And the ears of jealous brothers,
covetous aunts and worrisome grandmothers.
Mother defined by daughter's expanding mind
Sure to be judged on what she finds.
The avenues are endless.
None are sinless. No one sins less.
Men less concerned will not discern
Between her origin and her departure.
Her forfeiture dependent on what she shares.
Her survival contingent upon her care.
Growth forged from what dashes despair.
Her hair the hourglass of her existence.
Early persistence some claim as reward
Paid back as penance to become wards;
Wrought under the watch of those wise
Enough to cloak their eyes
And present it as her shelter.
How they aim to swarm.
They embrace her skin so warm
With no beseech. Just breach and harm.
Far from grace many will fall
Yet among some, many stand tall
Not for sake of survival stories
Or the spoils of grieve and glory.
Simply just to trace the path
Set forward from looking back
To observe how little matters
And how much less should be gathered.
Here she counts her months in laughter
and her years in wholesome chatter
Between the mother she calls daughter
And the child she prays for much harder.
Her glasses rest in place.
The frame perfect for her face.
A lifetime of knowledge traced
by wincing eyes still giving chase
To every single moment around her.
She would raise a loving mother
Whom she hopes would raise another.
They will one day become her.
I used to hope that I would be
Around long enough to see
Just how much they've grown to be
The symbol of love laying before me.
I looked her in the eyes.
Never could catch her in a lie.
There is much mangling of truth
But what is certain never dies.
Its origin is as vast
As the path that it purveys.
How long what manifests will last
Is written in each hourglass.
Every strand beneath a comb,
every doll on makeshift thrones,
every tea pot in the home
And rocking chair now left alone.
Every single chastising tone
Over scratches and broken bones
And that distinct, familiar tone
When we would talk on the phone.
Every wife is not a mother.
Some sisters have no brothers.
Some grandparents are no longer around;
But what I have surely found
Is the truth that what we see
Was and is and will soon be
For what has left us in the end
Will certainly return.
Home
