there is none so whole as a broken heart

a rabbi said the messiah
sits just outside,
at the gates into the city,
waiting
not for the pious, or the
sinners needing redemption
but for men of truth.

There was a great tree
that was struck into our nervous
systems, like filament in a
light bulb. Flick the right switch
and we light up all the way
back to genesis.

But then we were never good
at understanding
infinities; we know endings.
Why else do you think
we fear death? Ever wonder
why no one can remember the
birthing? There never was
a beginning. Everything always
was already, a growing.

Paradise, just a name, or
a neighborhood. The rest
of us, just kids from
the wrong side of the tracks.
We are the exile.
We carry tents on our backs,
our lives, our skins.

There remains a space
or empty hollow endless place,
the kind you restrict only
due to the perfection of a
pure bestowing desire:
all it can do is give,
and punctured through,
we are made into
vessels, because it desires to
give: we are receiving.

It's why we were made. Like
the honeycomb made for the
nectar, and the cap of wax
to seal us
until we're ready,
to be opened, and drunk up
like lilac blossoms. Like
the rush of Spring.

Reviews

[Sorry Infamous]

Lindsay Young, this was beautiful. Every stanza thought provoking, poking holes in the next and then reconnecting them again. I was hooked from the title until the end. Truly one of the most original things I have read here on writers cafe.

[Ed Hart]

like poetry, such as this...