autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

Empty Fields

The waiting is the hardest part
Time dilation, hours seem days
I look backwards, remembering
I see what is recorded, reality
But it does not feel real

It pulls and stretches
Like some ancient piece of twine,
Worn and unraveling fibers
Subaural moans and fraying
Hidden too well, or irrelevant?

I wait like buried gold;
It matters not how I might glow
Here, in the quiet, the silence
Here, in the shadows of solitude
Here, waiting for sunrise

The last words still ring
Like distant sanctuary, lost,
“I am not sure I can sustain this”
To which I can only whisper,
“You do not have to do it alone.”

I want to belong and engage
I want to be truly part
Not sitting, wondering
What is to come, or whether
Anything ever will do so

Is it so heavy a demand, this?
A feather of wistful wanting?
Is it so difficult to take,
What I have been waiting,
So long, to give freely?

Is it too much to ask,
Too much to fairly expect,
That I might be fully embraced?
That I might know more than
Ever intermittent visitation?

All around me, every day,
Everywhere I look, I see
All the people who have this;
All the wonderful ways of it.
Why do I find it only forbidden?

I am, it seems, out of season;
My giddy, happy spending, too soon,
Lending all myself as one reaches
Rather than waiting for actual touch.
I am, it seems, that dandelion;

Am I once more to go to ground?
Spend all my seeds in reaching,
Throw all caution to the winds,
Find rather than rich soil, the fallow?
Once more only finding empty fields?

(MP3 Available: Empty Fields)