Still, I am living in your first impression.
Sometimes, in the darkness, I pretend not.
I feel I must welcome you this way,
Or this other way, but welcome you I will to this thought.
Here I weep or smile instead of asking nothing.
At its best, it is not you, it is not me
Here at rest. Instead,
It is eyes locked in a telling embrace.
You are holding me in graces or in places like old
Monuments we've told ourselves we've molded
And did. They all bow to us
For the way we treasure our desire.
I never reason out that far, I will not tell
If we have outlived the new or old
Visions that we wear like clothes
And something in the very air returns to us.
In exaltation we know our worship is ever
Divided not by love in the harsh light it can bring.
The pledge is not for blending into one,
But two into more, evolving patterns.
The patterns are not the same. If you note a piece that is familiar to the first
You know that all are based on beginnings in
Stories we are part of and transmit
Through these wires. They were never ours to know as true.
I prefer "you," not to nothing but to all
I must give away to worlds and thoughts.
Not the air or the food;
For this is me nourished by knowing my work is not finished.
(C) 1996, Dave Soyars