broken vein.

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There is a room that remains closed
in each and every one of our hearts
it holds what means the very most,
a treasure-well of priceless life parts

It is dark yet there is light enough
as I sit before my piano keys
A single note is all it takes
for the forgotten lock to release

I roam into that room at times
and see a broken picture frame
the glass all shattered
and scattered
on the floor

I kneel to pick up the pieces
sharp shards find supple flesh
and a broken vein reveals
the frame never really mattered much
laying broken
behind that door

The picture remains whole
despite the fallen broken frame
reminding me your smile never wavered
when that black & white moment
forever captured your name

The frozen twinkle in your eye
gave pause to the moment
where memories haunt
and questions taunt
inquiring:
is this what love truly meant?
that every once in a while,
a frame falls and shatters
revealing loves true intent

Did we really think these
constructed frames
could forever hold
ephemeral moments
encased in gold,
preserving them in the amber of memory..
a museum of fanciful reverie

Yet there they remain
preserved in a special room
of shattered frames
and broken veins
a sacred shrine within a tomb

And the shattered glass
now crimson red
adds color to the room
the broken vein, an endless well
for the ink to pen the wound

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Solitude

Andre Brito Photography

Within this solitude,
I have grown in ways I never knew possible.
I have delved deeper into the caverns
of each chamber
of this sacred abode
we call the Heart,
and discovered there is no end..
It is a perpetually incessant journey.

I continue to swim,
propelled through this bloodstream, ~ this heart’s dream..
my tears becoming one with the ocean
within the vessel that carries me forth.

Guided by a gentle hand, the inward immersion continues..
It is dark.. warm..
it envelopes me.
I cannot see .. rather I feel,
moving by the sight of faith.

There is safety in this sanctuary,
the guiding hand a cord,
the darkness a soothing, protective womb.

I inhale deeply —
as I hear the voice whisper:
 everything is allegory
      pain is a sculptor (it keeps us upright)
         love is a painter (his brush divinely guided)
            lust is a cello… (but what good is an instrument without a song to sing?)
and I am ecstatically transported to Tagore:
I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument 
while the song I came to sing remains unsung.”

I exhale cathartically —
Releasing..

It seems an eternity between the inhale ~ and the exhale..
a lifetime between each breath.

cello