Tell me the direction of the garden that souls go to lie and grieve.

I am a shiver; with each bone clatter the milk and honey
That was womb’s barrier falls free.
A sailboat swept up by ways and now dormant under a sequoia tree
I have been ravaged,
By memories, spoiled fruits, dead beliefs,
Fever induces its creatures as the earth produces wheat.
Where is the river now
That was said to guide me should I lose my way
By the night…?

I am humbled by time.
What greater lord is swathed in the deep gaping?
Rinsing wounds with hours,
Setting sun and long, frigid darkness I dip
My pen into it.
So shant the chill lay hand on my shoulder and bid me good morning,
While I sit restless,
As a cricket screaming, limbs bowing and colliding.
I haven’t noticed the window in an age.

I wish to see a horizon again.
Not bleak with cloud and storm, cut savagely with quick,
Corralling finger of Jupiter, lashing blue across my sky…
Why hasn’t the good bird lingered? Why mustn’t I cry,
When all the realm
Is shaking so harshly over knees
Weakening…

If I lie silent, shall the shimmer come and bake me pleasantly
In the raw umbra of Apollo’s dreams,
In the blood and meat of the Behemoth’s slow sleep,
In the push and pull and the Ziz’s great wing,
In the crush and blue fire of the Leviathan shall I
Go on?

What isn’t taken from us at the wet moment of birth?
Tell me, is there a way to the sacred ground that does not
Require my undying attention, my stomach’s contents spilled out?

I am slipping like an eel through the fingers of Elohim, the toes of Nun.
Unable to find footing by the walk of being so passive and enraged
The world I hear
Gives prayer, but I,
Tumble by the lucrative nature of such a polarity of god.
I stumble as though I had been given but a sliver of ground
To place foot upon;
The deep sea chips me from either side,
As a pulsing light,
Willing me with melody and mellon collie to give topple and embrace its sweltering swells,
Its airless song…smokeless abode I hear no sirens just
Calm devil, bade I come a slight nearer,
let it see its child.

I am a child.
Always infant beneath the gaze of such a great eye.
Always young and full of promise unfulfilled, wandering, seeking,
Slipping into abysses that have naught name nor meaning.

I beg you, tell me.
Is there such a place, such an embrace that I shall at last give ghost
And follow, and weep…

Tell me, direct me to the garden so I may steep,
And cast curse into shallows, and wade far out, and
Empty
Such sorrows.

I bid, some angel, to hug me tight.
Perhaps I pray, had these lips not been banished to the forever drinking,
The endless striving towards some fine,
Unseen,
Unspeakable life,
Set fire in my ruthless mind of yoke, slit, yellow blood eking…

I say again,
Tell me where the garden lives.
Tell me I have one more sky left. For
I am too weary,
If there not to be at least one more violent rose
Unfolding as the Elder Nile along the heart
Of this dark, along the vein that shall carry me into the depth of the white, white snow…

Tell me I have chance to hunt truth,
But once more.