Twenty-Four Poem by Richard Weissman

Breathing of seconds - off digital clocks, cast iron church bells and distant, hard-fought memories,
The pacing of life,
The purpose of days - together, apart,
This journey half sung rings loud now,
"Twenty-Four"
No saccharine poem reveals it,
No contrived prose can cast it through cynical shadowlights,
Nor silent repose implies it.
No, it must be lived beatific in fullness,
Pulsing together, apart,
Vital through dreams and waking,
Through laughter and tears,
And all of it heartfelt through touch, through love,
And all of it moving, chosen, conscious (or striving towards conscious) ,
But perfectly imperfect love…Of Self, of God, of Each Other without such love diminishing our love of Self, of God or Each Other,
As clocks inch forward,
Through fullness of measure of breath,
And love,
Inexpressible, Irrepressible, Timeless yet paced through clocks, measured in breath of all our days,
Breathes on.