Only if the home of the earth opened itself to me
Could I know everything.
And when
the fog begins to draw near,
I’ll be bound in ivies of truth.
I lay upon a lingering of
misguided struggle
that weighs me down and drowns me–
it doesn’t make sense that some things are better left unsaid.
When time bleeds on and
memory seeps to forgetfulness…
Do I just become neverending remnants?
What’s left of me is whispered
into the markings on stone walls… conversations
that are merely dreamed of,
And
endless retellings of the past.
Amongst the ivy of truth, there's silence
in the grace I offer myself,
taunting me that
perhaps
ignorance is bliss. But still, no matter what,
there’s no escaping the confessions of nostalgia—
the sly cruelty of remembering… it is here,
that the secrets of the past always unfold.
And I find myself consuming every word it says,
sewing falsities into a fabric of time.
But peace is strange. Peace is quiet.
I press my hand in its grass
and run my fingers through its water, and
here the universal truth is so clear.
I hear the whispers of everything–
the heavy breaths of time … the slow traces of solitude …
and the earthly reflections of
pain that the past once held
so violently.
It is so delicate. All with one touch,
everything unfolds so gently.
There are stories that slip
through my head,
and lessons I fight to grasp.
And
time keeps moving and
the sky keeps changing and
still it all sings to me what the ivy of truth
wants me to hear.
And it goes on and on and on–
The eternal passcode is tenderness.
