Those Words That Never Meet
The lines you follow are like space to me
& as I throw spaciousness into the ring
you are too quick to fill it —
contours a language few of us speak.
How rarely we humans chime —
the clock of blaming starts its slow relentless tick.
This understanding is outside the human dream.
Each sky has its own language
each planet a singular rhythm.
There are no words to accurately describe reality
which is void-like and utterly unblemished —
there is no you or I but we don’t understand
that no-thing is our own & in lieu of understanding we fight
only to dig a deeper hole. This throat is full of great un-saids
pointless words to choke on to forget.
It’s the unseen’s plan to draft us inexorably into silence
after we have failed at successfully stringing words
in ways that make sense.
They continue to sing from behind pale shirts.
We worship in hope of colour, better days ahead.
Copyright Simon Heathcote