My Senses Tell Me….

 

My senses tell me this:

that the night is cold, dark, silent

and lifeless – save for me.

No friend within arms length or a mile

is here for comfort or admonition,

argument or love,

and in myself there is myself

a man for whom I claim my love

above all else – if honesty be in thrall

to what men are and might aspire to be.

 

My senses tell me this:

that down the path, twixt ancient ruins

and philosophies I have read

there is a *yes* and *no* surviving all

to be the chalice of my aspirations,

to be my god to whom I cling

as others, more grand than I

have done to their joy and to their doom.

 

My senses tell me this:

The rose, that brief tint of color

and odor we praise because it lives

and thrives outside our eyes and hands

yet dies in ignominious clutch,

has done its due because there is no more

we can expect of life than beauty and death;

there is no more we can expect of touch

than ends in endings of cold

and silent nights.

 

My senses tell me this:

That sleep is not a balm for doubts

of ones design for life that’s good,

but sleep is good for holding death in tow

for the moment that it scours the body

with the brightness of something that is real

beyond all my senses

and into the membrane of all my cells

that hold as many  bits of life

as all the stars and galaxies.

 

But my senses tell me nothing

of these words – as did Hamlet

have no voice of surety for his indecision

and his confusing love of self.

As alone as I am, there is the tale

of my yesterdays, and that is all there is.

 

If one can live on that,

they may find succor in

believing in tomorrows.