I write as though you could understand
and I could say it
One must always pretend something
among the dying.
What do I know of writing, but this:
An archaic means to speak of things
Thought to make us feel alive.
It could be about an old song
You’ve always known. You heard it
And wished the music never ends.
Remember, everything is a reminder.
Whatever we lose within ourselves,
We’re bound to take to our graves.
Maybe even the things that make you
Believe in grace. How you witnessed
The sun rise as your soul quickened to say,
I will never take mornings for granted.
And I will describe the way arms cross
As if to catch the soul from falling
Out of the self. This is the body failing
At night, while the city insists on
Emulating the sky with its numerous
Constellations. An act that creates
Force fields, sleep, to find consolation
Upon waking in dreams.
While some will find comfort
In repetition-- consider sin,
That we mean them most of the time.
Trust that all good intentions
Will never run out.
Now, will you release your arms,
Rest your heart? Listen.
I will hold your secrets like a stone.