MY WAY HOME

I know certain things
but have forgotten more
than I can contain within myself.

In the half-light
of morning-tide
beneath a bow-shaped moon,
I am vulnerable
to the sweet song
of cascading rainfall
on a tiled roof
and to the muted memory
of unwavering affection,
as natural to me
as my way home.

If I have lapses in judgment
that fool my heart,
then I await the drama,
the feel of emotion
of my next breath.

Some people are takers
and have two names
and an equal number of faces,
destined to be alone
in like company.

They can be strong
in a weak way,
ignoring the reality
that actions have consequences
beyond expectations
that can flow incontrollably
like an undamned stream
to achingly unforseeable places.


Others are givers,
unselfish owners
of a generous life force
that continues in and out
of this beautiful world.
They act lovingly
and are universally
loved in return.

How lucky am I
to have breathed
the same air;
to have tasted
honey in a voice;
to know why I am
who I am
and what is on
the other side.

© JOHN PISCATELLA