I didn’t know what I was doing
but when you see a man as he lay
dying by your hand somehow
your despair becomes impassioned,
your promises prophetic.
And yet who was to know the depth
at which the psyche would wield
it’s governances when I took on
his frail spirit and swore
I will know no anger again
(as I did at God
when he faced me with
the taking a life) nor be the brunt;
I will be no less than happy,
(cherished, validated,
desired, unlike the life known
thus far, found lacking,
in need of want);
I will nourish my curious nature,
mind, heart, spirit
(leave no stone unturned
no chance unexplored);
I will live life to it’s fullest,
emoting expressively as I moan
and bleed
my soul like ink
on paper
and the scratch, scratch the pen
makes, my very being will I whore.
But chance;
it’s like an open door
and the coming to it, inspiration,
the getting of a glimpse, divinity and yet
now and again, my verve and
exuberance bruised
when suddenly it slams and promises
I made lay
unfulfilled.
My heart breaks, second spirit stirring as
sadly it is not the chance I mourn
or the person left unexplored
but loss like the unrealized absence
of a lover’s touch after being warmed,
like the lives I have known that passed,
like the thought of slow decay,
like promises I never should have have made
and burdens I never should have bourne.
