Were we ghosts before growing mouths?

Did time begin with the clock or the word?

Is the line between life and death drawn above our heads, or beneath our feet amongst the bone white remains of childhood? 

What I do know is that the sun still whispers to me through the curtains each morning, bearing the same warm breath that took me from the bowels of sleep and into the aroma of my early days. I know that the birds chirp more at 3 am than 10 am where I am, and for some reason I can’t stop thinking about it. I know that there’s a reason I’m afraid of selling my old things, I just don’t know it yet. I know that I shouldn't have been pleased to see pollution covering the mountains on the way to Bakersfield, but even in death the warm golden brush along the sides of the freeway seemed more alive than even me. Tell me, does death use the walls of our minds to hide from the life pulsing out of everything we touch?

I

The reaper, beside his blood coated scythe, sitting under an eternal night sky from which every star will one day fall. Each year is a knife twisting through his plastered bones, and the pain is not one of flesh but one of memory. Waiting for the light of a single distant star to dissipate, he sits in an absolute quiet. And when the star finally casts its darkness upon a galaxy that he will never know, he is met with a brief wind to soothe his hollows. This, is the ecstasy of affinity.

II

The angel, inside the warmth of a golden lake, weightless and apt to the volume of the space around her. Within her arms lies the remnant of a star that once was; in every direction the light moves forth. Reflected back in an instant, regardless of distance, the pool of light she inhabits connects her to each and every star that ever has, and ever will be. In the colossal face of this everythingness, she displays an unadulterated calm. This, is the ecstasy of infinity.

III

The human, amongst the gray between darkness and a gleaming window. Outside of this box, exists a succession of larger ones. With their eyes fixed to the world on the other side, they recall the feeling, wistfully, of stepping out into that world and sensing yet another window—one so perfectly transparent that forgetting about its existence is an ordinary act. Their arms extend outward as if to breach the glass, but this time, and every other time, their fingertips are met with an unexpecting shock. Their arms fall to the floor as the waves of electricity reverberate through their body. Defeated, their gaze fixes back towards the sight in front of them; and they continue their search—feet forever married to the earth. This, is the ecstasy of finitude.

White light sitting frail / on the cusp of that world behind / this one beneath my feet / beyond the veiled / sacred sense of clarity / melts into crackling oil / finding its way into / my short lived pleasure / ocean air becomes language / an empty white room forever / seeking someone / to realize that it’s there / I know nothing without them / dreamt lies / they surround me now / as I look away / someone must be / waiting for me / I wanted to know them / I’m afraid / my tongue will freeze in a word / their faces could mean anything / from afar / tell me / how does one return / from hiding / without making a sound / how does one resort / to faith / I’ve simply forgotten / the steps / think no more / about losing / a second wing / you’re going nowhere / you haven’t been / look down / to the earth / if something became nothing / then nothing will become anything / yes that's right / it has to be true / go now / look flesh in the eye / know that each of us / is an empty white room / each window / bearing a reflection / of oneself / until you get close enough / to realize that / salvation / is invisible

I

I thought it was a blade,

held to my neck

that made the impulsive tongue beg. For mercy

we will abandon ourselves. The bird

will abandon its nest

if captured. Can we be 

certain 

that language 

is a matter of meaning 

rather than 

failing? Openly

I take a step forward

towards home, yet,

the blade moves with me. I must 

respond 

with something,

a sharpness

as frightening 

as the act of nurture.

Tell yourself

that you are merely

an actor

in these seconds.

When the blade cuts deep,

and the blood flows 

out

into a blistering cold,

you will know,

what you’ve done

is real.

I'm tired

of pushing against the edge,

of building the courage

to turn around. When

faced with an outsider,

to go inwards

is not

to run away,

but to 

remain still long enough

to remember

what you are.

II

Why should I have to look

for myself, the mirrors

used to come to me, 

just like the words

that I can only muster when

it's no longer silent.

I’m praying 

that my words are caged birds

set free, and if the day comes

when every last one

is out of reach,

i’ll gaze up at the vacant sky

and smile.