What am I alive for?
Is it to breathe the easy insolence of the wind,
to see it circle around a cherry sky
strike violets against the blue (birthing violence into a calm)
causing merciful ripples into a dead lake.
Is it to feel the fables rustle the leaves
dense green and raging into the void
of a parable breeding in a forest,
feel the singe of human hands write stories
and imprint the words onto the blossoming of sand.
Is it to embrace the rescuing sun
and find comfort in the day’s ugly scream for attention
to seep into the welcoming rays
and sing with the lemon wings of birds;
or perhaps to dull into the night and
sleep under the fluorescents of a celestial ambiguity,
to cry with the lulling moonlight
and to forget with the forgiving morrow.
The whispers in the quiet of my thought
tell me that the dearth of the living is to find content amongst the incomplete,
the omniscient, the ever-changing
the falling tides of the earthen weather:
to feel the soles of our feet sink into sand
the waves tickle our toes
to submerge into the subservient
and fret peacefully under the warm glare
of never knowing what there is to be known.
The cold shudders of winters apart
and the sweet reminiscence of springs akin-
we envisage a purpose so out of our reach
that we forget to breathe in,
and hold, and wait,
and feel the flow of human emotions build a lake,
build a home, and quiver into a promise
forsaken to keep us alive.
And I guess for that reason I am alive
just as things are meant to be,
no grand gesticulations borne through atonement
just the mere presence, the slow hum of a heart speaking,
“give, give, give…”
I am alive but for the sake of a thought,
for the sake of writing a poem.