The Weight

It is something woken up with--an invisible stone
of unknown size taken into account each morning
as our bodies shift into auto gear, and our only
hesitation comes from the slight pressure of the
brake pedal--and then there is no more, no
mode of transportation, no cliff face, no precipice
to gaze longingly after--you are at the thresh hold
standing in empty space left naked and vulnerable
--cries have nowhere to travel as they are absorbed
like raindrops in a dark, vast ocean that does
not sway or tear asunder--it sits placid as
the dead lifeless heart of a cadaver on a silver
platter where no order was taken, no chaos
registered to go, it is the gross enclosing shackles
of dead earth falling into an unmarked pit of
no remorse, the cinder block at the bottom of the
sea that the thinker calls his throne, and you the
image reflection staring back at the slice of water
on your side of air, waiting for the air bubbles
to rise, for some sliver of light to pierce the stone
that woke up inside of you this morning, all while
the sun sat attentively listening in your lap.

~Written in the empty quiet of the church~