Sliding

Tenuous is what I think I'd call
the grip any of us have
On reality; we reside in thrall
to sense-perceptions after all,
filtered through a primate brain
to which our symbolic fetish
is new as fire, sudden as rain,
and because of that, we easily
relish
the creation of taboos and
sacred things,
the hallowings of ground
and the rings
of a Venn diagram would not
easily show those borders of
sacred spaces and
the acceptable places for our
otherings.
No,
we are too enamoured as yet
with the get of our
thoughts,
made into existence with words.
And if we say our is
makes oughts--

Okay?

So it does, as we
are primitive architects
as yet, cave-dwelling, and
words confuse, creating forms
in spaces mental and emotional--
and so the devotional space of
one,
intrudes on the wounded place
of another,
but brother,
this isn't about your pain,
but a recognition--

(RE--cognition)

That we might make things right
with the words we have
and make our symbol new,
and what pain was ever borne of
hate, with love, could
be remade true.

And we accept that we don't own
all our pain, not
when it is shared,
and wounded hearts heal
when we understand
what separates the fallen
from the spared--

one thread cut off,
one yet woven
into the complexity of time and space,
and time does not erase the memory
of the missing,
but the reality of the living
is to accept the buffeting of fate:

we all are sliding to the tomb, but
we need not linger at its gate.
Let new life bloom and connections form,
lets let ourselves relate--

before it is too late.
Before it is too late.