Swallowed to the Sinew

Fun is always packed a layer away

No matter what it is now there is a solitary nature to the intake

Which operates like a bubble

The want of another to share the bounty with is sequestered inside it

The daily events the dedication to the discipline to commit to the practice

The yoga, the writing, the sport, the bars, the theater, the music, the thoughts

The panoply is assembled as to not savor the taste on the eyes

Of others paired in intimacy that these moments possess the potential for alternative

How many years, I can barely utter the meager number of hours

Feeling this is how I was built and accepting is the objective

As if the isolation were a food unto itself the alternative of which

Was a deadlier poison

I want it to be different and dare not say such too loud to myself

For in the utterance the claustrophobia starts to crawl inside the turtle shell

The science fiction of poetic love wrapping like the raven to the escritoire

Bending light from a window in stark sunshine as bright and blue a day as Earth can muster

Peeling at eyeballs so adjusted to this silence uncertain if I have ever felt love

What it really is, hoping to hell I have not

Washing me in the cosmic ocean feeling the biological laugh, the atomic sleep

The spiritual breath inhale and exhale in a single constant aum

Aware no sound ever alters, no voice ever comes

Afraid if it ever did I would appear so wizened and startled I would disintegrate

As the sarcophagus opened from the staleness bartering with freshness for time to explain

I am not sure I still know how to ask or how to hope, only that there has to be more than this

This trying to grasp the universe inside my thoughts to travel through the self

To shed the self as if intimate love is such indulgence

The fatigue of dwelling better to try to keep moving and hover not in this

Let be meditation in the greater spheres juggling, pulsing, being in the now

Wanting the solidity of mutual choice to be an option after a triune of falls

The bleak stare echoes into the no face praying for human touch like a remnant

Of what I once hoped life could be, could be, might be

As every hand feels like a scythe slowing cutting away the humility to be vulnerable

Like muscle from a bone eaten as an offering, taken from the willing

Leaving me starving, pretending a man need never eat again