I can bring you to the field where I died
that first time. Even, I remember the day.
Harsh light, more unkind than any complete darkness
or bitter cold, reminds me that
re-birthing requires
time and patience; practice and luck,
often with no end,
thus remaining incomplete
despite an ongoing struggle versus minutes and hours,
miles and miles…
 
We travel to this field, you and I,
pushing through wind
as it lashes our cheeks and forehead
doling out punishment unforeseen.
Diluted now, the sun dips low in the sky,
teases with long forgotten potential.
Its warmth uselessly consumed by the past.
 
“Nothing is forever,” you tell me.
“So what of Death, then?”
I know I should not speak.
Throughout the silence I seek forever.
“This field is like any other field,” you say,
too casually ignoring Death.
Silent dissension fills the air
enveloping us in a fog composed
of all imaginable doubt and regret.
I see differences when no one else can
Therefore this field becomes unique
(to me at least).
I know now to keep silent,
as a child should in the company of adults.
“Poetry will never exist in your soul.”
I know this as absolute truth.
This is the field where I died and was reborn.
Nothing is forever.
 
When the end result is met,
what matters the route taken?
Truth matters in the end. It is all that is.
The horizon, unforgiving and relentless,
swallows whole what remains
of the feckless sun.
 
This field and horizon are innocent,
playing only their parts in a larger charade.
Satellite reflections are all we have now,
leading us to truth, something real (or perceived as much).
Pale light takes my hand and I take yours
to follow this mirage toward the selfish center
tucked away
into a corner of the vast
Unknown.
Waiting to be discovered yet again.
“And what of Death?”
“Nothing is forever.”