What takes to create such beauty in the words I write
I weave the intensity of memories reserved for nights
when tears stain my pillow, no reason to cry
but the absence of a heartbeat in a world so bright
that stepping from shadows into the lights
cause permanent blindness every time I try.
Unsatisfied I travel roads occupied by many
searching for the same or the insane
if insanity travels similar roads and the line is fine
a transparency difficult to understand if any
when searching for meaning among the pain,
what’s left if we are lost and the blood leave a stain
in the dreams we form with the passing of time.
But to feel my dried up heart resuscitated from the ashes
left by past burning fires that now occupy my sleep
and keep me from dying in the midst of defeat,
if I can recover all the wonders as life rehashes
old stories and beautiful words would allow me to keep
and live with the intensity lacking in a dying heartbeat.
This poem is about the lack of intense feelings in life, the moments where we search the past for the muse needed to compose the words. Desperately searching those feelings for our next fix as the ink dries up and the pages remain blank. Becoming stale and emotionally neutral is like dying without the benefits or heaven, if such exists.