What Carries Over

Sometimes I feel better when I imagine my own conscious thought is all that exists.
The feeling of being a disembodied psyche in friction-less space,
Emptied of all but the most critical pieces of my identity
And reassembling my complexities into a more beautiful shape.
As many times as I’ve done this,
There are thoughts and patterns that persist through me,
Some I’ve cherished, others I’ve hated,
And some I couldn’t understand or even properly explain.
There are pieces that never seem to come unstuck,
Fears, attachments, and my deepest memories.
There are images and vague connections I retain,
Like pen-strokes which remain even after they’re scribbled over.
A vague, off-beat rhythm seems to drive my actions,
Unfocused or out of sync with the environment I’m in,
Curiosity, obsession, and paranoia distort my tempo,
Playing my own tune, in spite of what drums beat around me.
I’m liable to fall carelessly into the beautiful or intriguing.
My heart snaps alert, when a note, by happenstance, complements my own.
There are ideas, perceptions, and sequences of thought
That feel more like hell and like home than any real place.
Whatever I do or imagine myself to be,
There are elements of myself that remain true.
Burdens I carry, gifts likewise treasured,
And I expect they’ll remain until my mind is permanently changed.

Beneath Unseen Things

Under the willow roots

A skeleton lays, looking up,

Wondering what it means

That he cannot be known.

All the living things

Above the surface earth

Perceive their present moments

Unaware of what’s below.

An impaled heart

Over which the willow weeps,

And dusty bones

Snuggled firmly in the dirt.

Unbroken silence,

The tree’s buried shelter

For secrets of its regions

That no one could know.

Dirt for the dead,

Commotion for the living,

Hollowness to follow,

Vacancy of thought.

Lovers, ash to dust,

Marrow is to bark.

Love without a light

To illumine what they are.