Elegy for the [lost] child within

For all the times you chose to run

from love, Kid

[clandestine meetings from

higher selves above]

For all the times you were told

you were burdensome, as a kid;

undeserving, or not enough,

too much, when you fought

to stay above,

[the ego, the id]

and not sink, or throw palms up,

[into oblivion

where all things numb]

For all the times you heard

you were dumb,

or plain “too fucked up

to care,” of

the extent of it…

This is how a blue star formed:

[scared to confront, or feel

any type of real love [?]]

a sterile concept,

another world

as unimaginable and

fantastical as multi-dimensions,

higher powers, superpowers,

ascension,

tall towers, perfection,

lores, or a small child’s

dreamt nonsense

of simple, kind, affection:

love

[none of which exists

in any sense, unconditionally

or in my sensed reality]

only conditionally or transitionally

like the journey through hell

we take as an incensed kid—

still thinking we are a hero,

finding redemption

For someone else’s sins;

when all we want is to stop

to be held, rocked,

on a horse, like a bitty kid

in a nightmare calling for their Pop,

of course,

not a sword, or a penned quip…

A hero’s (journey) digression:

Can you blame

me, for wanting to run?

So maybe, darling, my little Lark,

it is not your fault

that I flee to the sweet dark.

You cannot gaze at me that way,

like you would a nightstar,

bellowing “all will all be OK

—shh shh, coo,” as you wish

[to no avail] the pain away:

a bedtime story, as grandiose

as a white whale and as naive as

a hero whose certitude,

believing in such high tales, will prevail

as yearns yellow, day by coming day;

and just as swiftly

throw my fair-wings away

each and every cross’d night,

without me being terrified of

flight

or promises on high crosses,

or higher forces:

Love.

Stars cannot feel safe near each other

for more than one doze a day;

exploding to a supernova sounds as beautiful

(as death can sound), even eons off,

as booming stars not wanting their lovers

looming as they burn entire galaxies.

All-consuming, beloved,

how could something so brightly coveted

be shielded in the presence of another

when your exploding suns cool

entire universes

at the core of each other?

With only grounds to run,

to stray in pains, to drown my weeping

in my planes—in my suns—

don't you understand

my little world, Donne?

[so far, to the edge of the night

where it is, still, the only place to hide,

to write, amongst paladins and knights,

defending what becomes of true legends,

myths, fighting for solid light].

In essence,

I do not wish to burst, nor soar,

but to slumber for ever.

Yet run is all I now do,

my learned-firsts, from distant forms;

akin to portending the coming morn,

questioning such morrows,

from dimensions away

—when all I wanted was to guard

elements above.

Alas, Love knew that love would never be enough

for a Blue Star,

illuminating heavens above:

to deserve the type of light

which does not give up.

For all the times you chose to turn

from Love,

Can you blame

me, for longing to numb?

[into oblivion,

where all things holy

go to dumb, in halves

and dark holes called suns]

until finally running home

—To A Higher Self Above