of the language of eruption,
where emotion finds its end
through metaphor.
The word searching for...
... for the place within place,
trying to rise above the fall
and make a new world from them:
not tears made of words,
but words falling inward,
the soul speaking through expression,
the chest lodged in the throat,
the heart flooding the eyes,
the cheeks trembling with joy,
the satiation of hunger,
the refuge of fear,
rage laid captive,
love overflowing imagined love,
the future dreaming itself as present,
the mountain descending as rivers,
beliefs believing themselves to be the summit,
the seal of whatever story can be sealed,
yet are all of them the rise above every fall?
Why am I, then,
trying to reconcile
irreconcilable ideas
if I may already be falling?
If only I could
embrace this renunciation, mine,
and write its aftermath,
yet beyond the fall
there would be only absence:
the place without place,
the eruption that suffocates
under its own overwhelm,
unable to find its expression.
To feel as the metaphor
I shall never seal
—Is it even one?
trying to reconcile
irreconcilable ideas
if I may already be falling?
If only I could
embrace this renunciation, mine,
and write its aftermath,
yet beyond the fall
there would be only absence:
the place without place,
the eruption that suffocates
under its own overwhelm,
unable to find its expression.
To feel as the metaphor
I shall never seal
—Is it even one?