Pinpointing Our Souls' Heady Altitude

Broken records of balmy amnesia-
Everyday reading like a farmer’s almanac in
A cloister of Sundays;
The socking meat has vacated the oysters,
And esplanades are f&cking rich with sand.
My life proceeds with no moisture,
No feminine hand in my hand, no line to drop
Fading, enchained by bothersome amusement,
I petition for a look into your eyes,
For a dream, to feel wonder and real merriment,
To be a ripple in your lake,
To be the solitary moon joined by a captured
And to look coincidentally with you, past the rushing
Sanctions of commodity,
The traffic repeating into unsatisfying homes,
And see those very apexes brushed in the reflecting
Light of another sea on the other side of the world,
As if our eyes were reflecting through a corridor in
A lake,
Pinpointing our souls’ heady altitude.

by Robert Rorabeck

Comments (2)

It is beautiful but really sad... Love gained only to be lost in a never ending series of farewells.
It's odd. 'Ephemera' seems to describe my life at so many points in time. Everything eventually becomes a hobby in my life, whether that be good or bad. In place of relationships I think I keep a heart basket: a kind of vasiculum of feminine emotions gleaned from those who granted them to me. My heart will rarely stay with another for long, so I have no connection with the hearts in my basket other than that of owner to trinket. Now, lest you think me cruel, I must say that I am not aware of ever keeping whole hearts imprisoned. It seems that when my heart begins again to rise from its temporary resting place on a woman, her heart seems as well to become more her own. Lest, though, I be left utterly destitute, I wield the fine scalpel of time and chance which happeneth to them all and take a small piece of her heart to keep, as a page in a memorandum-book, as a reminder and a possession. Few women own such a scalpel, else would my heart be disseminated across continent and perhaps globe; and I would have little with which to purchase hearts for my own collection and much sorrow about which to write —(for everywhere a piece of your heart goes, there follows a portion of your soul, like an all-seeing eye) . http: //