YetAgain

What am I, that I should find
the sleeves of the past
more longing than what is,
or that should be,
for the effort spent
of the undertaken?

Cracks of lightning spill
to open lives quilted
with the dust of the done
and words spoken
of lacking lips to press
to the headstone.

The weight of frosted
mountains toils in visions
scarce to wonder for
remnants of others
who bear identity
to a sameness.

Curious, to wetted fingers,
conscious silent verandas
shade the goings, dramas
laid in mutterings
of loves and hates,
old smoldering arisen.

Coursed in veins of hemp,
tiled memory weeps cobwebs
silted in golden grains
tasting of jaded passes
to those mother worlds
cutting another's void.

Finger tendril tales twisting
in the skein of presence
consuming I am in copper
tang of mated histories
holing pulsing membranes
of individuality.

I was and breathe yet again,
on the casted living wheel,
to return and press the earth
of ever desire's wine
and the eye's sparkle
children unborn.

� 2000 DPMcClellan