THERE IS NOT THERE ANYMORE

If I were a poet

I could write a love song to God

that only she would hear

I would whisper it softly

into her ear

softly.

if I were a poet

while I was singing

I would brush away the tears

that would fall

upon her holy cheek,

gently.

softly.

was I wrong to reach my hand

out to you

when I saw you cry?

and when I said I believe in Karma

you misunderstood.

if I were I a poet

I would tell you

the Wicked are not always

Punished.

the Righteous do not always receive their Just Reward.

it’s that

All Of It.

All the Good. All the Evil.

She. Will, Consume. It.

All Of It. It will amount to Nothing.

I lay my head upon your chest

just to hear you breathe.

if I were a poet

I would sing my love song to Gaea

softly, gently,

until you fell asleep

my words, like jewels, would fall

in the spring rain.

only…

it’s the spaces between

the words we remember,

the pauses on long walks,

the barely remembered glances,

one hand touches another.

If I were a poet

I would never catch my breath,

nothing to say.

stare out the window.

hear the door slam.

was I wrong

to reach my hand out to you

when I heard you cry?