And maybe it's just me,
or the clay shell of who I was,
now boxed and maybe even forgotten,
down deep as I sleep
holding tightly to rosary beads,
all of me planted like a loaded cannon.
Or maybe, it's just a seed,
maybe only a small thing now embalmed,
buried down deep,
with all the majesty of creation,
all of it here tucked in these insides
like a wiring beyond comprehension.
And maybe soon it shall all pop open
not like a bomb but like a bloom
and remind all those with eyes to see
that even from down deep
there is forever in what life shall leap
unearthing eternity as if another spring.
other than just a clay shell,
maybe nothing relevant is packaged here.
Maybe time and place has no time
or place to contain the uncontainable,
Maybe even the breeze will speak of this
if only one could hear it.
I do sense the unraveling of all that is.
And I don't fear it.
Rather, let me follow the rhyme
and be near it,
in the time capsule of my soul down deep.
Published in Torrid Literature Journal,2017
Saturday, November 25, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: eternity,soul,time