The Wilted Mask

There is a deep well
which holds the clearest
blue water. It fills
one and cannot be
found elsewhere.
Thirst from a tired
heart. I saw the crows
feet and sunken eyes,
the lingering hesitation
that held hope with shaking
hands. If I could only
have said some special
words to you, you may have
been spared from that
train line.

One answer to your questions,
the answers to my questions.

The soul still has a
deep enduring craving to find
who I am and what we are;
more prevailing than the sun
and stars, math, science
or literature. Do we have
some Shepherd or must
we steel ourselves against
the cold dark night
which Thomas spoke
so valiantly against?

Within this thirst, at its core
rests an unintelligible sense
of some vital piece to
my heart which is missing-
some cornerstone to a
foundation to which has no
name and can be found on
no maps; its reality only
confirmed by a genuine
feeling of absence.
Yet it is always a heartbeat
away and still so unimaginable
is its possession that to
define it would be to negate
its existence.

The Rubicon lies beyond
these ceaseless hills and
bogs, challenges yet unseen.
I still have time to find my temple,
though perhaps I have
already found it and the
only step which remains-
the last hurdle that I must
overcome, is to only let
go of my brothers neck
and instead take hold of
his hand and to lift him
up beside me into the
brilliant morning light.