Weight of the prolonged

Under the weight
of the prolonged
rests the peaceful
disintegration
of a name.

			What is your hope?

It is feeling,
oozing past reality
to where experience
suffers spasmodic fits.

It is the long 
and sullen
attaining 
critical mass.

(The belief that)
with a push from
the other side,
the anguish disperses
and comes relief.

Maybe this is 
where you find
it.
In the remembering.
In the soothing.

To mean,
to suffer --
sister soldiers
of internal discourse.
To verily believe
the unbelievable.

Mid-May musing

The irony of human suffering along the sliding scale:
you are forced ever outward by centrifugal forces.
The clarity and peace of the origin
an irreducibly tiny part of your once effervescent nature.

Breath now, the musty air of time everlasting.
Taste the staleness of the fragile identity.
And in awareness of yourselves, may you find the
peace denied as you press ever outward.