There is an existence
between
time and the physical.
Like two sheets of clean, white paper,
they stick to one another.
We have wed them together,
Yet they didn’t need to be.
Peel them apart,
another universe awaits.
An existence, that’s calling,
For us to make the trip.
It’s always here with us.
Bleeding into our lives.
Sometimes we’re covered with the stain of it.
Red with the blood of it.
And yet we see
nothing.
Hear
nothing.
Say
nothing.
But feel
something,
like an emptiness that shouldn’t be there.
We find the void too hard to accept
And so we try to fill it
with all manner of things
and each other.
Like a voice we try to drown,
we turn away, busying ourselves with anything we can find
hoping that the sound will fade
the emptiness will fill
and time will leave both
nothing more than a distant memory,
Like those of a childhood dream.
But it calls.
It can’t help but not.
For it exists
and in existence a presence is fashioned,
a sound is beat,
a waiting is forged,
to be discovered.
PoemsofaDad 