Life is unavoidably ecstatic,
at every scale, degree, level, dimension,
an oscillation,
season to season
day to night to day to night
cycle by cycle
wax by wane
feeling
by feeling
to feeling

always moving
both ways
all ways
always

crest, trough,
cresting-
falling,
lifting-crashing
riding, riding out
and in
and through
and by
and by,
bursting..

I could explode,
I might explode,
I did explode,
I do explode
though I'm contained,
boundary by boundary,
transcending,
including,
moving

always moving
both ways
all ways
always

rainbows weaving spectral waving,
rivers raging, bodies growing,
organismic, oceanic, orgiastic
in-ing, out-ing,
coming-going,
holding, letting go,
flowing, flowing, flows
surrendered, building,
pursing, pleasing,
pangs, paining,
ripping, breaking,
sorrows to joys to shade to shine,
as chasms to substantiation,
as abyssal to full,
as burn to burning,
to smoke etheric,
to ashes, to ground,
all passions
as passions
passion

pumping, filling, releasing
on-ing, off-ing,
alive-dying-birthing-living,
living as moving
always moving,
transforming
breath by breath
by breathing, being
this to that,
a changeling,
changing
always moving

always moving
both ways
all ways
always

Fingers shake.
Scribble down one last thought.
Sigh of relief.
Lay envelope under pillow.
Eyes close.

This is a poem,
Like any other poem.
About a girl who met a boy.
Did they fall in love,
Yes,
They did.
They fell,
Like the rain.
Then,
One day,
The boy,
Smiled.
And that was that.
But,
The girl,
She couldn't forget.
She couldn't forget that smile.
And, so
She wrote to him.
A poem a day.
Everyday,
Before she slept,
Slipping them under her bed.
With each passing day,
The girl wrote a new poem.
And soon,
She became an old woman.
But,
The boy had also become old,
And, once again, he left,
Resting in peace.
When she found out.
The old woman didn't know what to do.
So,
She wrote one last poem,
And slipped it under her pillow.....

The old woman down the street had died.
Who was she?
No one came to her funeral.
Apparently, there were pieces of paper stuffed under her bed.
Its trash now.

You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

You don't talk to me,
anymore.
The voice in my head,
Its gone.
My mind,
Is a bit emptier.
My desires,
feel lonelier.
My thoughts,
They seem larger,
With no one to share them with.

I,
am mine.
I am alone.

But,
You wouldn't know.

Because,

We don't talk anymore.

You won't listen.
Why?
I'm shouting....
You hear me.
But,
You don't listen.

You say little,
Its always the same.
But,
I listen,
To unspoken words.

And they slowly drive me mad.