wandering

in the fog of my existence

in the distance

I think, I think I see you

making out your form

tracing you with my eyes

standing there

are you watching?

waiting?

for me to finally kill my soul

the singular formality

of all that is left of it all

so to be that sacrifice

for a moment

to give

just to be sure

that it is you

standing there

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sometimes it is your heart that plays tricks, which is truly the vessel with which you see things ? or is it a symposium of the mind, heart and eyes… or a want for that perfect grail, that simple carpenter’s cup that can heal all? (I wrote this poem originally 6.18.18)