A poem for dVerse :Those Pesky Questions of Identity. Possibly questions 1 and 3
Everybody knows about the hole in the bucket.
It’s where reality, as you think you know it,
the visible world on the other side
of the plate glass window of your mind,
slowly leaks into the emptiness
of time and space. Until one day
you find you have arrived in the here and now,
and the bucket’s empty. You have entered the void.
How is it that the illusion of happiness,
the lingering smell of sweat and damp sheets,
the cocoon of comfort wrapped around the male brain can,
in the course of a conversation, over a cup of coffee or
sitting on the edge of the bed, turn into an aloneness
without substance, an accumulation of a lifetime of togetherness
with nothing to hold onto.
Nothing tangible, nothing real remaining,
except in the mind, where thoughts like shards of shattered mirror
reflect the residue of breakfast Christmas morning,
pregnant days of mythical contentment and satisfaction.
The sun through a shadeless window,
a mattress on the floor in an empty room,
the temptation is to fill the void with what the sentient body craves
memories of touch, vibrant, smooth and gentle,
a breath warm and softly caressing
what you assumed you possessed.
Waking to nobodies home anymore
means you are left to your own rewards.
this worthlessness, this fall from grace, is man made,
the soul silence of lack and loss,
and can never be regenerated, only replicated.
A knock off gives you that warm and fuzzy,
But nothing fills the annulled,
the dark matter of relationships,
for it has always been there and, ignored,
in the blinding light of romance.
There’s a groove in the CD,
right where the heartache begins.
Time to buy some new music.
This time make it something you like.
The sound of your voice in the morning
affirming you are okay. For nothing real
can happen until you are satisfied
with the face in the mirror,
with how you feel about yourself.
It has never been complicated,
if you can’t cook, stay out of the kitchen.
If you don’t love yourself,
leave romance well enough alone