How many drugs does it take to stop the thinking?
What sedative will still this soul?
The nights are long; the stories in my head are short.
Sadness in loops, feeding back to sadness.
Short circuts, shortcircuting my sleep.
I read a story about a man with a zit.
Asked the doctor: “What do I do?”
“Let it express itself.”
I liked that. Leave the festering be.
Don’t poke and prod to hurry the release.
Let it express itself.
All things come in their own time.
Even the foul eventually works its way loose.
The ball in my chest is tight.
Pain in taunt chords.
I search for the pill that will start their loosening.
A remedy of peace, for my life, in peices.
Does the candle I light with grief
Burn as bright as the one I can’t light for hope?
A book of Rumi.
My late-night soul-lover.
We grapple and tangle naked with God, you and I.
Whenever you hurt, you say Lord God!
The answer lives in that which bends you low and makes you cry out.
There in the flickering dark, my beloved brings the words.
Across the centuries.
The broken down, the faltering.
The answer in the crying out.
I had a dream, tall building collapsing.
Me running up the side.
Dream gravity doesn’t hold.
I run up as tower falls.
Falls to level, pivots on unknown fulcrum.
The falling flips to rising.
The ruins turn on end, stand anew.
I try and remember that dream.
When all collapses around me.
When Wonderland-like, I can’t stop running.
And my late-night soul-lover’s proverb:
Joy lives concealed in grief.
In the festering sadness.
I let it express itself.