Upon this golden bed between the living and the dead I ache knowing that the things I love will eventually fade away. ( I am the poet of the fallen world )
____ to write about love is to live on this earth.
Once we stop loving we no longer belong here we drift into a dance ____ with death.
No one likes to be reminded of their own mortality it is a quick snap of the wild a point of no return ____ the ‘not’ being.
It is the under-current ‘why’____ into the wonders of life.
____ it is the sadness of death, the flowers turning burnt Sienna, the poems that flow from impermanence and the path that disappears.
Maybe not being here is more satisfying than we can imagine,
____ to float where the migratory birds fly, in the spirit of the stars, the moon and the emptiness.
(Don’t we all know deep in our bloodstream)
____ intensity cannot be sustained and we will always be hungry; it is our appetites that keep us alive.
( In this moment )
I no longer see you everywhere ____ only glimpses from this distant field,
does losing someone change us ____ or do we forget the pain and rename it?
Always I remain the beggar of words laying here watching and waiting for your crumbs, like stories to fall so that I might live.