Friday, December 07, 2007

Circular Breathing III

These heavens we
have made half-real
with our wanting,
with that swirling
vortex within us
that aches for
some completion,
some rationale behind
the wheels of
misunderstood motion
whirring in the
background of the
louder grind,
suffusing the space
within our heads,
within our hearts
as we tread the
gears of these
machines.

Machines, awake--
the gears of our
hearts and heads
suffused, spacing
outward into the
silent grinding
of the universal
engine, our small
whirring background
noise adding to the
motion of the life-
symphony, misunderstood
but grand within the
giant wheels of rationale,
incompletion's ache
over eons of wanting,
half-real as heavens.

Heavens, unfounded,
incomplete eons without
wanting for some logical
rationale for our grand
but misunderstood overtures,
the motion and noise of us,
our whirring entrails
small against the background
of the engines of the universe,
those grinding moments of
digestion outwardly silent,
the gears of our head
and heart awake and
yet dreaming.

The waking dream
assails the head and heart,
gears spun outward
into the quiet and
ruminant universe,
making us small,
our hurried motions
without consequence,
irrational and without
logic, such great
wanting, yet doomed
to be forever without,
to be incomplete
throughout these
eons, our heaven
left, at last,
un-found.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I've read this poem a number of times, now, and I find myself having mixed feelings about the message. The searching for a "heaven" that will never be found seems sad and a waste of time. I have a difficult time relating to the constant search.

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