empty fields, running
off to the mist, are you
going there? I have
come from there. spices
fill my nose, as they're
crushed in my fist, oh this
weight I bear, I have
come from there. let the
waters flow, running
off to the mist, are you
going there? I have
come from there. let the
road we ride slowly
cease to exist, oh this
weight I bear, are you
going there, are you
going there, are you
going there.

if poetry
is the truest expression of the self
then what does it mean
that I have been avoiding poetry,
clamping down on the flow of words
because I know
that somewhere in those words
I may remember that I love you.

"The stream of life
is a wave on the ocean of love.
Life is expressed in the waves of love,
and the ocean of love flows
in the waves of life."

I've been working on this one periodically for more than a year. I suppose that finishing it now counts as catharsis.