OTHER THAN BLISS

Away for years in solitude,
a why for tears secluded,
my heart is a stagnant lake,
whose rivulets dry before a great gathering,
transformations from lake to pond to puddles,
pawn of a great scheme,
these policies collude to ruin me,
make me a vehicle of ambient concern,
somewhere in the aether,
only the sweet ambrosia of thought rescues me,
it's vintage intoxicating, harvested from authentic reflections,
in the culmination of auspicious collections,
we recollect with great fealty,
a grand purpose in the engineering of destiny,
a place in the formation of purpose.

People love to throw away the beautiful things,
in hopes and trust a new dimension of beauty appears,
in the harvesting of inner qualities,
and for this isolation dear,
something cultivates in the potential of the heart,
a pulse for the rhetoric of the disconnected,
a disconcerting obviation of bonds kept in revision,
forever lamenting the absconding of possibility,
into the night of despair,
that harvests the aeons,
in the depths of becoming

anything other than bliss.