The Bifurcation

THE BIFURCATION

in the empty moment between

reach and touch, the great 

misunderstanding, i divorced

the crimson petal and 

the porphyry font

or more accurately

it closed its covers and

abandoned me, to gather dust

on another shelf; to seek

a fresh interpretation; to hear

a deeper reading

and i remain 

with a tedious inventory

two empty beds, each

in their own empty room.

empty pages in an otherwise

empty dresser -  devoid 

of words and fabric. 

empty chairs. empty fridge. empty

echoes.

an empty nest. broken and empty

shells sinking into

an untilled landscape. empty

of rain.

i’ve removed the monochrome

pictures of the dead, 

to empty the walls, but

let the nails remain;

a crucifix bifurcation.

an empty framework of

splintered oak and blood.

i preached a silent salvation,

to myself,  in the seedier

rooms of exploitation. sang

empty hymns of longing;

of empty esteem.

i practiced the faith 

of  amongst them, but

not of them  

and failed

i sought redemption in

movement, lifting heavy burdens

of my own free will.

i convinced myself pain was

the path to pleasure.

i emptied my mind, emptied 

my vision, emptied my breath.

i transcended from emptiness

to emptiness to emptiness until

there was nothing left but

the transcendence 

from waking to waking to waking.

yet i remain,

with nothing but the stained, 

unpressed garment

i was born with.

now, in the space between,

like the absent lily, 

i lay myself down to sleep,

perchance

perchance

my god, perchance to dream

to wait

for resurrection