There something missing from the picture
that’s imprinted on the scissors of my soul:
A c(h)ord that should have anchored me;
a featherbed (that’s heart-shaped) or a hole.
Nostalgia for the time before all time —
Before I was a twinkle in an angel’s eyes.
Before the fire was made into our star.
Before the light beamed from creation’s whys.
Before there was that visit from afar.
There’s something missing from the strings
that play the aching heartsome lullaby
that’s me. There’s only one thing here
me longs for — ciphered heaven’s poetry —
to bathe within those lean etheric seas
which once before a time was where I’d be
with oneness running free… without the me.
I’m weary now; dog-tired of dirt and dark;
meanwhile I feed on humble pie and art.
There’s something missing from the lantern
that’s a substitute for Light, which filters out
the searingness of ego-crushing angel-bright
ballistic-fashioned centripetal blessedness
(the which I seek with every FibreAtomCell).
I swear that I could die right now in peace;
no need for pouting pantomimes of grief.
For death is life’s own sweetful masterpiece;
the only way God’s clowns can find relief!
© Alan Morrison, 2015