The Golden Mean
Led dim to a light of a golden mean,
I allow myself to be cut in half.
Middle, now, just becomes two more extremes;
I keep getting cut into half again.
Writing home... Did you see me parse those words,
the words that said more about you than me?
When you try to tell me about the world,
I only hear your dark soliloquy.
Couplet after couplet these quiet lives,
you read the word "lives," but I told a lie.
These lives will echo all eternity,
you and them and, God forbid, even me.
... an ocean grieves, pushing tide
to drawing back, a wound reopens.
An ocean recedes in the lee,
refusing my thinking:
ocean winds whisper waves, without alliteration.
You're all too familiar.
With extrasolar arms,
you seem closer now in deadest calm,
closer in a lunar day, closer to the pulling moon,
I'm not alone in weeping with this ocean.
I'm not alone here with your whispers,
merely wishful thinking,
merely me, myself, relying,
seeing you at final resting,
endless and relentless,
inside where we subside ...