Print
to voice, and voice to print. Your gaze, ever with
tears,
swept and wiped away. I’m cautious to write pain,
but
joy is so elusive. You were felt pressure, calm in
sorrow,
mind meditating deeply. You type with such
force,
seenly adjusted, gait to woe, and woe to gait. I
glanced,
not to watch, never so closely, to conquer tears.
Tomorrow
is venture, a solo venture, filled with creativity.
It’s
print to soul, and soul to print, seeing buildings of a
future.
I feel you there, pondering deeply, moving
through
screen and film. We perish and resurrect, hearts
heavy,
communing with fever. You see so readily, and
readily
seen, but ever so distant. I’ve seen it twice—to
charm
a wound. I’ve seen it thrice—to hold a grudge.
Such
is pain, to feel alone, barely able to communicate;
for
it’s such a secret, and nearly taboo. Sadness hits,
often
resistant, where movement is desired. It’s so delicate,
soul
to soul, and voice to voice. But climb, commune,
and
soar; ever to drift, touching consciousness.
