Dead Poets Live
Published in

Dead Poets Live

This Cleaving of Humanity

Photo by Anis Rahman on Unsplash

Not all the elegies have been sung
there is no way of telling how
many before we are done
as consciousness cleaves loved
one from loved one, creating enmity
along tectonic plates, pushing hard

‘I have come not to bring peace but a sword’

I may fall down the middle
not a religious man but suddenly
find myself believing in prophets

notice how the heart sings for unity
our calling to rise above mind shadow
learn to sing like any pair of racing
swallows, dash the primacy of
belief, learn the journey from head to
heart while the crow still perched on its fork

tells us time’s up, karmic accounts
squared to where each person stops
& you wonder why the difference?
Why the world is so bleak?
Why this terrible divergence in love?
That’s simple, not obvious, speaks to
this raising of light in the soul that
has nothing to do with reflection

but purity, the choice to let the world
go, turn inward. What happens always
a matter of light, each ledger a doorstop
a personal history of darkness
how much you longed and ached for
what the world was not & in the end
how praise stands upright counted like an abacus.

We were intimate as a snowflake once
or this pattern in water, finely nuanced.
Symmetry will take all sorts
a hard wrought balance still sought.
But as you ask I can only tell you —
yes, I am angry. Are you not anymore?

Copyright Simon Heathcote

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Simon Heathcote

Simon Heathcote

Psychotherapist writing on the human journey for some; irreverently for others; and poetry for myself; former newspaper editor. Heathcosim@aol.com