Notes from the Chasm

Folder: 
Sorrow

You were once the delirious
lanterns on my river of dreams.

 

Now you are the river.

 

No thought slips by
untouched by you.

 

Out of the void
where I slept,
blissful in the black
dream before birth,
blossoms erupted and
sculpted images of you,

 

your light like petals
reaching for the greatest
beauty all around.

 

Now your absence is a
plunging well:
banquet of hunger,
echoes of stone,
below me a moon
unhinged and staring
absent-mindedly,

 

miles to fall
before the dawn.

 

Your eyes were
my last memory,
my last full breath,
before the chasm.

 

A few days and
a lifetime ago
they were my portal
to the spheres:

flecks of Venus,
or a nebula
composed of love,

 

so much blue and its
endless gift

now encased in the ice of
your leaving.

 

The lake has no life
of its own;
it lives through the sky,
born as one note of jade,
then shattered by stars.

 

Your memory floats broken
among them,
your voice here and there,
and all in fragments.

 

Trees like rough-hewn pillars
support the mysteries above.

 

And even they aren't speaking.

 

Without you joy is a
well-kept secret,

and with the empty air
I sign my name.

 

Patricia Joan Jones

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