Alphabet City

Everyday we lose subtleties,
small gestures of grace and faith
now somewhere in the void.

Perhaps not irretrievable:
one would need a hand,
a borrowed shoulder and someone’s heart maybe to cry on.

I pulse, you pulse, the way it’s supposed to happen
over time.

A perch,
unseen bird relaxes
and intuitively expels
the only song in the world.

A branch,
doves couple and breathe
into one another.

So rarefied from atop the canopy,
I yearn to stretch and become the horizon.

God, I am so endeared to the splay of existence,
I shake because I feel too much.

And too much
fades away.

© Chagall 2014

Even if there is other life out there,
the eternal question still remains:
why?

Is existence the only option?
And I don’t mean death as the alternative.

If not to exist, then …

I can only fathom my non-existence
atop an infinite expanse of gray static.

And there is the dilemma.
To perceive the great empty
implies consciousness.

Nothingness is dissatisfied
with the implication – the
inferred duality that insists
something be.

In a world of no light,
total ebon static,
we swim like silverfish
in a petri dish, bouncing
into matter.

Chagall 2018

Do any of you wordpress folks remember a writer who called herself
Greeneyed Chess? I know she went through a bout of ill-health a while back.
Any information is appreciated.

CC

I jump from the rim of the earth and
descend into the island of clouds
afloat in the sky above me; gravity
is no more.

Sadly, its time is up.

Chagall 2018