Welcome to a new year, friends and all. I’ve not written in quite some time, nearly three weeks to my remembrance. I’ve got something for you that I hope makes up for the absence and rings that funny little new years bell. No more tears, no more fears. I’ll be 23 this year. Everybody hates you when you’re 23. Please enjoy the piece today. Without further ado…
Transience of a Midnight Passerby
One day I wish to wake
from this ever-present, all-encompassing sliver of a dream.
I rest here, without laurels
on remnants of those things left behind
by former residents of the periphery.
It is not that there is nothing here.
It is only that this place is transitory,
it is a placeholder,
a way-station for all those who might find their way.
I lie here,
untethered from the place that comes before and the place that comes in consequence,
on an old bed of straw and linens
expertly and serenely tied to an aging cedar frame.
I’d hoped to find a little more peace here.
Perhaps I’d hoped to divine some meaning from the splinters I’d get sleeping in this worn and tired bed-frame.
Those little wooden splinters tell the story of a thousand years lived in a world so loved that every single lover has died right there by its side
no matter how ancient she might become.
It is only that I lack the knowledge and wisdom required for further reading, lest I might learn how this old cedar frame came to be.
That,
I don’t think,
would be permitted.
Soon I’ll move on,
washing away my time here along with the stains in my bedding and my clothes.
This is nowhere,
certainly not somewhere,
and a place that no one can truly stay,
for only it is no one that lives here
and He I have not been able to find.
Before those wooden halls and vaulted ceilings call me home,
I’ll find one thing so worthy of a King.
Poems by Sam 