Mask of eternity

They grip at my hair
I let them

Sitting in the void
waiting for silence
they weep
for me

Only understand,
the further away I am
from you
the stronger the bond that holds us together

Such is the nature of love.
the sky and the earth
my past lovers
now yours
for the time being

If you weep
let it be
not for me, but for you
so that you may shed your suffering
and blossom your wounds
into flowers

tell the others you love them
as I do you.

The mask of eternity is my sleep

 


-Ben

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Quiet Love

The subtlest love, to learn, to listen

Is heartbreaking at times

Tugging on the ropes that make you, you.

Often a quiet love, many times unappreciated, yet

The magnitude of silence is seldom understood

but by those who dwell in peace.

 

The smallest opening in ones heart is a fountain from which to drink.

The longevity of the soil of mind lives on it,

Courage. Hence

 

Parts of you that bloom in the wind of your spirit

Are satiated by the silent, knowing whispers of your soul:

The ears ear and the eyes of your love.

 


-Ben

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Photography by Dids

Remnants of love

Never did I believe in love at first sight til I met her,

The floor fell from underneath my throat and my eyes saw only flowers

The remnants that I keep of that night are the chips of my past that were never washed in the tight lips that spoke a thousand truths in an instant [without saying anything] and in a daze were gone

And we walked for morning coffee along the tree strewn path and the leaves and the sunlight danced like the cistine chapel in our wake

She held my hand and led me to a dark corner to whisper in my ear. She told me about love and I didn’t believe her until she was gone.

The next day was grey from the night before. Reason tasted like cookies from school; raisins; off.
I felt like a lake in the moon light, left only with the still reflection of what could have been had I been quite right in the head.

Yet the unknowing is the loudest silence

the roaring thunder of torment that lingers on the lips of the assailed – nothing.

My arms have gone

My arms have gone

they jumped overboard

all that is left are the

blood stains of yesterday

and the stumps of tomorrow

still I pick at them

the scabs of my eternal imprisonment

asking “when does this end, when will it end?!”

Knowing full well that the death of yesterday is the birth of tomorrow

and so I am cradled

in the womb of the wound

hushed at the bossom of the great mother

who holds me steady and reminds me of my birthing teeth

and my small hands that scratch at rocks

yet are capable of so much love

 

I am the body in purgatory that speaks when it is not needed

I am the gluttony and the prudence that weighs the scales down till they bend at the joints

I’ll be the flower that in death by starvation in the desert of my mind

casts its seed into the fertile land of the heart

to let it bloom

 


-Ben

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