As a youth, I longed to discover heaven.
I believed dreams could bleed.
I thought Eden was a real place.
I knew age made no difference to truth.
I couldnt image ever really being tired.
Now, I no longer need as much sleep,
but Im never rested.
The questions of truth seem pale
next to the wide world of infinite opinion.
I garden for sage and thyme,
alone on a patch of ground well fenced,
unsure of what to say to passers by
in a fractured world without shared myths
or a common language.
And dreams, well,
I hear myself say,
"Wake up! It's time to live!
The day of dreaming is passed,"
and I nod my head, agreeing.
But I no longer trust my own judgments.
What are beliefs but rationalizations
of petty wants and needs
masquerading as something longingly noble?
When faith and honesty collided,
the long legs of truth snapped beneath me.
I learned how to live with myself, convalescing.
I've stepped beyond the sky
of happy sleep and wishful thinking.
I've stepped beyond belief.
It is time to live.
It is time to tend my pettiness.
And, perhaps, the sweetness of each movement
will be miracle enough.