The

Palmist 

of Lost 

Leaves

We like to drift 

until we 

reach water,

desperate for

one last drink.

By opening

our hands,

we bare

a sorrow

greater than

all joys 

put together.

Letting go

to take stock

of our souls 

is a gesture

that frees

us from 

circumstance,

yet binds us

to purpose.

Even so,

our joys 

may age

into mourning.

But sorrow is

not the same

as suffering.

Remembering joy

is simply bittersweet;

a recollection

leading to 

greater soul

while joy

leads only to

more hunger.

Sorrow is 

a full moon,

joy, a 

crescent.

Melancholy memorializes

what it has loved.

Walking the city streets

we fear others

will see our despair. 

So we dress 

to go unnoticed.

Where we are 

has roots

that never reach 

below ground.

Ever in the act 

of self-regeneration,

we remain

brittle leaves

buffeted by 

life’s livelier

currents.

Others pass

by us

in the street 

not caring

which dying tree 

we may have

fallen from.

We maintain 

our sorrow

because who can

reconcile each moment

being a farewell 

to the moment 

before?

In search of the sacred 

we carry 

our lives as if 

solely responsible

for their memory.

Arriving anywhere,

our mouths stuffed

with dry leaves,

we remain obsessed 

by travel, despite 

there being

nowhere else 

to go.

Time is a ruse.

Pain obliterated it

long ago, yet

its hardly behind us.

It no longer matters 

where we find 

ourselves; 

soul is a scar.

From now on

the world can’t help

but be

a portrait

in distress.

A face bleeding

through

a woman’s

dress.

Though, not

without beauty, 

but rather,

in full display

of an anguish

that softens

hides. 

Maybe its true,

maybe

we were added

to the multitude

so that the world 

could feel itself

more fully.

10/06/21