Love is it’s own reward.

What is the matter with me?
I can’t see beyond my own misgivings.
Tell me the truth, if only once.

Who are you now?
Where did you go?
Should I follow, or should I seek my own path,
like some drunk seeking his redemption i
n the promise of no more, but not just yet?

What’s the deal?
What’s the catch?
What’s the price?

I think I need to be near running water.
I know that I need to listen to the emptiness
of the tender skin that used to be our souls.
I need to smell the air.

Like a leaf that curls from want of water,
my essence begs for the nourishment
that used to come from proximity.
There is a far thing that beckons.
There is a far thing that needs to be fed.

I need to till the earth.
I need to feel the warmth of the summer sun.
I need to see things grow.
I need to hear the words that hang in the air,
that have no substance other then themselves.

How shallow life has become.
Like water running over smooth stones,
it has become a gesture of movement,
with the hint of reality.

When I was young, there was always a sense
of how it would be, now there is the reality of how it is.
Who knew, then, that all of those fleeting moments
would never be fulfilled, that all of those promises
would never be brought to light,
except in these dark moments.

Time, it seems, has become the enemy,
rather than the solution of all things.
What I thought would be resolved has
become the bigger question.

There are no answers.


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