Turmoil eternal friend, fiend, my cross and comfort...
Love, is it her mother or is she the offspring?
Am I drowning or dying of thirst?
It's me, it's all me! But in the loss of gravity I fail to
perceive my position or condition...
Have I become too greedy, expecting more than I deserve?
Or have I sought my self denial so deep that I'm ceasing to exist
as a physical entity...
The twists oh these twists that turn my world around fingers, never touching...
The touch I so crave, any touch... But a void can not be touched, maybe felt but not touched!
And surely the void cannot feel the hand passing through it as it searches for something solid to caress...
And I've seen the unsentimental eternity of cyclic energy, it has no memory or feeling its mass is unchanged by the nuances we apply to our withdrawals we make from it or taint the deposits we claim to make...
It's all just the meaning we strive to squeeze out of our existence...
So, how come we deny ourselves and each other the one thing that makes a difference in this indifference turmoil, the closeness of that touch... The comfort of warding of the empty night is a spoon, an embrace to confirm that we are not alone in being alone...
What misguided pride, what cruel moral or endless stupidity makes us fear the this touch, this touch of life
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