the deepest kind of blues

The hardest thing
For my heart to fathom
Is the death of my own dream.
It lives too near to the heartbeat
And strikes so many nerves
You almost forget the thought and organ
Are distinct.
I am unsure why the loss of the
Intangible
Brings such physical hurt to my eyes
as if the connection
Between body and mind were fluidly
intertwined-
You’d think I’d have brought it to
Fruition a long time ago.
In this death
I am reminded I am still alive,
The blood continues to pump,
Only unlaced from the substance that was my dream.
Sometime, without that image
(or with it minus the faith)
I wonder who am I
And readjust my desire
And live so it can die
But the sadness of the loss
Is that its never really true
The manifestation of the death
Never really occurs
You hold on to the image…

But knowing
That one day you will
walk hand in hand with a lover
into the cemetery of dreams
and plant a rose,
is an overrated appeasement,
for the mind can only grasp
one heartache at a time.

And knowing
That every sunset
Gives birth to a dawn
Is also to infinite an emotion
To be felt.

‘Less John Coltrane
came back from the dead
and laced that lovely resolution
with the deepest kind of blues.