Psyche

The propagation of an idea,

a willingness to visualize beyond the scope of a limited reality,

and that specific and perpetual state of suffering,

the mundane and yet revelatory commitment to authenticity

that I will not bow, that I agree to wander,

that I will ponder across stretches of solitude,

the thought that we will never cross paths,

as the coincidental probability does not work in that kind of order,

that kind of chance.

It appears that I am clean of serendipity,

as it left me some while ago, for good reason.

I was dismissive and insistent and tedious.

I desired all the parts and not the whole of it,

so why should it reside with me

when the power of another beckons more earnestly,

more fervently, and gratefully, and worthwhile.

I am not adequate. Not in this moment.

Trickses

Love waits not for those of us with lesser to spare, for we own our prejudices and nothing more. I suppose love is, in itself, an act of valor, an act of communal defiance to overthrow that which oppresses us. If we died tomorrow, we will have loved another, straightly, simply.

Sometimes, it’s not as simple as I make it out to be. What I think of as love could be something else entirely.

Sometimes, the complexities of the deceptively mundane confound, and leave no choice. I’m stricken to move, as I think movement implies progress. Meaningless motion equates to nothingness.

Is my conceptualization of said love not love at all? It could be another thing oft mistaken for this precious commodity. It could be its disreputable sister, lust.

Lust waits not for those of us with lesser to spare, as the more we have, the greater our need for misinterpreted desire. It is erroneously consumed whole, leaving an aftermath of failure.

Life is little, but more. There is life before and after both sisters. Life remains, regardless.

Earth-bound riddles betray me this night.

Perfect Heaven Space

In my perfect heaven space, there’s a picture of you.
To think of all the time I’ve wasted not looking at you.
Answering the questions before it’s been asked.
The answer is in the question I hope you don’t ask.

In my perfect heaven space, there’s an answer for you.
And on my heart I wear a sleeve that you knitted for me,
and you just wanna pull that thread and unravel me,
answering the question before it’s been asked.
The answer is in the question I hope you don’t ask.
On my heart I wear a sleeve that you knitted for me.

In my perfect heaven space, there’s a memory of you.
To think of all the ghosts I’ve faced just remembering you.
Answering the question before it’s been asked.
The answers in the question I hope you don’t ask.

In my perfect heaven space, there’s an answer for you.

Perfect Heaven Space
Travis

Refitting

Perhaps one day, I’ll see things for what they are.

Neither past nor future will hinder this perspective.

My purview will be unaltered and unfiltered, near pristine in purity.

No longer will I see beyond reality and into the world of dreams.

Life has a way of reinforcing the perils and tribulations of this disposition.

These dreams, they haunt me by daylight,

rendering me irrational and insensible where convention is concerned.

I justify notions that would otherwise be deemed mad.

And yet, I defend this state of intention,

because to leave this place would mean that I’m one-dimensional,

no more than the rest of the singular mass.

I’ll stay here in between states of consciousness,

if it means a love that will nurture and protect.

Lustrous

I see you as the expanse between us shrinks and expands.
A definitive figure with broad features sharpened over many years,
certain in your heaviness of existence,
a solid mass of being residing in the shadow of moonlight,
deliberately concealed in the comfort of that immeasurable darkness,
a wish to be stumbled upon anywhere but under the sun.

I think of you under the brightness of my shine,
the way the lines crease around your glimmering eyes,
eyes bluer than the surface of the ocean at the point between noon and eventide,
eyes that behold me with such fervor and intensity,
such that Aphrodite herself would blush at first sight,
had she but remained squarely within your gaze for such a length of time.

I reside here across our mutual desire,
in the comfort of my own twilight,
of misty mornings that clear into afternoons so bright,
I think I’m going to go blind.
I think of you when I sit in the patio at summer’s end,
I see all of you in your commensurate darkness.

Who might you be, wanderer?
Have you come to challenge the roads I’ve forged?
Where does the depth of my heart and soul go,
if they don’t already reside in the life I’ve built?
What life is this, that would pivot so easily?
I wonder time and again of foolishness and hope in equal regard.